


Seam Girls

by AyYouFiction



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-05
Updated: 2017-05-09
Packaged: 2018-03-05 11:04:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 26
Words: 107,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3117824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AyYouFiction/pseuds/AyYouFiction
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After an explosion in the mines left her father disabled, Katniss has been the one to provide for herself, her parents and her two sisters. It's a life she's grown comfortable with. One revelation will change all of that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Seam Girls

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
>    
>    
> 
> 
> _A few notes on how this picture came to be. I wanted this to be about Katniss and the three most important people to her. Why her parents aren't in here? Because they come 4th and 5th for various reasons in their history. In the books, Katniss had always stressed how pretty Prim was and how much she looked like their mother and downplayed her own looks and attractiveness. I fell in love with the idea that they actually look alike except that Katniss has the Seam coloring whereas Prim has the town coloring, but Katniss's insecurities make her see Prim as the only pretty one. Also, I'm a firm believer that those from the Seam are the descendants of all of the minorities in W.V. and surrounding areas. BTW, I've fancasted Kylie Rogers as Flower. In this pic, she looks much older than Flower's current age in the story, but by the end the age will line up more._
> 
> Disclaimers: I did not have a beta for this story so please continue with that in mind. I own nothing of the original Hunger Games content. Everything else is mine.
> 
> Canon divergences: Katniss's father lives, Peeta and Prim aren't reaped, Prim's fourteen*, Katniss and Peeta are eighteen.

I linger in the woods longer than I should because I know the house is full. It always is this time of day, with my father, my mother, my baby sister, and Prim.

My father doesn’t leave the house most days since the explosion in the mines burned half his body, so he takes care of my baby sister, Flower, while Prim’s at school, I’m in the woods hunting, and my mother’s out to see to her patients.

Just as I thought, I can see the four of them through the window as I walk up the steps. The house always felt cozy to me before Flower, comfortably manageable with four people exactly, but Prim wanted a little brother or sister. She begged for a little sibling, and she got her wish.

It means that I have five mouths to feed instead of four, and another six years to worry during reapings instead of just Prim's last four, but I don’t mind because I love our little addition all the same, my little duck and my little Flower.

As soon as I open the door, everyone stops what they’re doing. My mother was stirring a pot of stew, Prim was hiding behind her hands in a game with Flower who sits on our father’s lap. Flower isn’t interested in the game anymore because she’s curious to see what’s in my bag.

Like me and Prim at that age, when our father would come home from hunting, it was wondrous to see what was in his forage bag, what strange creatures lurked beyond the fence. I guess for Flower it’s no different except the hunter is me.

Flower squirms off of his lap and toddles over to the table with Prim by her side. She can’t see anything being that her head clears the underside of the table so Prim lifts her up and into her arms for both to have a good look.

The first thing I pull out is a rabbit. Prim used to love rabbits. She says it was because of their fur, but I think she secretly hoped that one day I would bring her back one alive as a pet. Several years of rabbit stew has made that dream fade. Flower, on the other hand, can’t take her eyes off of the squirrel I pull from the bag. She loves to play with their bushy tails. There are two of them to go with the rabbit which could keep us fed for almost another week, but we can’t live on meat alone. My father has the same thought as he says, “You might be able to trade a squirrel or two for bread, Katniss.”

It’s still early enough to get it over with, so I return the squirrels to the sack, kiss the forehead of a pouty Flower, and then give Prim a quick kiss on hers before heading to town. I know it will be filled with people because it's the busiest time of day in town. By the time I get there, it is.

So I don’t have to worry much about the baker’s shrew of a wife noticing me when they have so many customers. Still, I slip to the back of the bakery to avoid her, knock, and hope that she’s still too busy in the bakery to answer. Thankfully, Mr. Mellark is the one to greet me with a wide smile. I can see two of his sons at the table behind him with their heads bowed, reading their schoolbooks for whatever assignments they have. I wouldn’t know about that because I dropped out six years ago after my father’s injuries, after I had to hunt full time to feed my family.

Peeta’s gaze locks onto me the moment his father says my name and hasn’t moved since. Even when Mr. Mellark leaves the door, promising two loaves of bread for two fat squirrels, Peeta still stares. I look around me, noticing the slight splintering of the door frame and how the paint is just starting to peel, how the steps to the door are cracked and need replacing soon. I’m desperate to look at anything but what’s in front of me, but I can’t help myself.

As soon as my focus lifts again, I see his brother cough before he slides a book across the table, knocking it into Peeta’s book slightly. It’s enough to get his attention, force it away from me. His brother tilts his head to the table, a not-so-subtle hint that Peeta should get back to his studies.

He tries. For a second or two, he does look back down at the book, but no matter how far his head tilts downward, his eyes are up and on me. His gaze is too intense, and I can’t hold it for very long before my head drops and I stare at my worn leather boots that have suddenly become very fascinating.

I’m never more thankful than I am when Mr. Mellark returns with the bread and we make our swap so that I can be off to return home.

* * *

I wake up at the sounds of chatter in the central room, and I don’t have to see to know who they belong to. Prim is feeding Flower her breakfast. Before Flower, I was the first to wake in the morning for hunting, but Flower wakes up earlier than me. Even though we sleep in the same bed, Prim curled around our little sister who sleeps between us, Prim makes sure to be up and out of bed before they both wake me. It gives me a few extra minutes of sleep that I appreciate.

With my hunting clothes and boots, I leave our room and see what I expected to see: Flower’s propped up on a stack of school books on a chair being fed her meal of boiled seeds found in the woods. She’s giggling as Prim circles a spoonful in front of her and gives her a funny face.

“Good morning, little duck,” I say to Prim and give her a peck on her temple and do the same for Flower.

My instinct is to offer to take care of Flower and let Prim spend time outside of the house with friends, but I stop myself. The last time I offered didn’t go well at all. It was the time she let me know just how hard it was for her in the Seam.

“I don’t have friends, Katniss,” she told me in a voice that didn’t seem hurt but it broke my heart. As gentle and sweet as Prim is, she should have plenty of friends, but she’s half Seam, half merchant just like me but worse. People from town want nothing to do with us because we’re part Seam which, in their eyes, is the same thing as full Seam. To them, Seam are nothing but thieves who lie and cheat at every opportunity. They see Seam the way the Capitol sees everyone from the outer districts.

At least Seam folk accept me because I look like them with my dark hair and olive skin and gray eyes. Prim doesn’t even have that. When Seam look at her blond hair, blue eyes and fair skin, they see merchant. Never mind that she was born and raised in the same poverty and social injustices as any of us.

Even the Hawthorne boys who walk her to school everyday aren’t comfortable around her, always keeping conversation to the weather or something equally safe and simple. They walk with her as a favor to me and nothing more.

I’ve always known her life in the Seam hasn’t been easy, but until she said those words to me, I never understood by how much. And it was the first day I understood why she wanted a little sister or brother. She’d hoped that she would have someone like her so she wouldn’t be alone anymore. Someone like her that would understand completely what it was like to be in her situation. As I look at my two sisters with their blond hair and blue eyes and flushed fair skin, I’m glad that she got her wish, but it also makes me worry for Flower as well.

* * *

I’m tired after checking the snares in the mud, but at least I got a fat beaver for my troubles to go with the rabbits and squirrels. All I can think of is the wash basin where I can soak my weary muscles before curling into bed. It’s even a possibility that I might forgo dinner; I’m that tired.

The first thing that I notice at home, though, is the missing sounds of a full house. I don’t hear Flower’s giggles while Prim plays with her. There’s soft chatter, but it’s even and mature: my parents.

I open the door and confirm that they aren’t inside. My mother’s helping my father into his favorite chair as I step past the threshold of the front door. “Oh, Katniss. Your friend, Madge, was here to see you," my mother says to me, and I wonder what Madge could have wanted. I know she uses any excuse to come into the Seam, a bit of rebellion for her as the mayor's daughter.

And then my mother continues, "When we told her you weren’t here, she took the girls into town for cookies."

Madge. Cookies. The bakery.

I drop my bag on the floor and rush out the door, ignoring my father and mother calling for me, asking if there’s something wrong. It’s the weekend, a Sunday, and everyone is in town buying what they need, including the miners as it is their day off.

In front of the bakery, I see Madge and Prim standing by the counter. A few steps more and I see Mr. Mellark with Flower in his arm behind it, cooing to make her smile. She’s beaming from all of the attention, and I walk inside. Everyone looks to see who’s just entered the bakery and smile when they see me. Then Prim gets a puzzled look on her face because she recognizes that the expression I must wear on my face isn’t good.

“Katniss, I was just telling Prim here that your baby sister is the cutest thing,” Mr. Mellark says, unable to take his eyes off of Flower.

I take a tentative step closer towards them as though my slow movements will keep the situation under control. There’s nothing to worry about because Flower is my sister and Mr. Mellark has always been kind to Everdeens, and just like that, Flower traces his eyebrows, his eyelids and his nose with her wet pointer finger that had come straight from her mouth. She does this all of the time with us, but it's different with family. Some people wouldn't appreciate spittle, even toddler spittle, on their face.

Mr. Mellark laughs heartily and I relax a little until he says, “My youngest used to do that all the time. His special way of finger painting.”

My eyes grow wide at the words, and it’s only then that I notice Peeta Mellark standing in the doorway of the back room with a tray in his hands. Mr. Mellark’s words—I’m sure he’d heard—my reaction, and his eyes soaking in every detail of Flower starts the wheels turning. And then Mr. Mellark twists the knife in my gut, “You said her name’s Flour? Like bread flour?”

I don’t wait for Prim to correct him. I don’t think. I rush forward and snatch Flower from Mr. Mellark’s arms before sprinting out of the bakery and down the road towards the Seam.

I hear my name called by two voices. One’s telling me to slow down while the other is telling me to stop. I don’t do either as I hold Flower closer to my body and nestle my face at the crown of her head to push on. She’s starting to whimper. I’m sure my sudden and strange behavior is leaving her uneasy and the only thing comforting her at the moment is being in familiar arms.

Prim catches up with me and tries to keep my pace but by the look of the ruddy color in her face, it wasn’t easy and still isn’t. “Katniss? Did I do something wrong?”

My mind is in a billion different directions, so I can’t think of an answer, not even a simple, “No.” It’s worse when I hear Peeta call my name behind us, angrier each time and Prim chances a look behind but doesn’t dare stop or she’ll have to catch up with me all over again. Lucky for her, unlucky for me, Peeta pulls at my arm and steps in front of me, enough to stop me in my tracks. He’s red-faced and breathing hard, but I don’t think it’s all from running.

The first thing I do is try to walk around him, but he won’t let me by stepping in my way with each movement all the while taking a good look at the toddler in my arms. Flower hides her face in my chest and starts to tremble a little. His voice had been harsh calling my name and the look on his face can't be helping the situation.

"Katniss," he says my name a little softer, and Flower peeks under her blond curls; her curiosity's won out. I’m sure the little peek of her eyes is enough. Her eyes aren’t my mother’s and sister’s shade of blue, but another shade that I’m sure he’s very familiar with every time he looks in a mirror. It’s the shade of blue that are leveled hard on me at the moment.

Nothing is said for an eternity until I gather enough courage to hand Flower to Prim. “Take her home,” is all I say. Prim’s about to question me, but something snaps in her mind at that very moment. Her eyes dart from Flower’s face to Peeta’s and then grow wide before she recovers. The last thing I see is her practically shielding Flower’s body in her arms before she leaves for the Seam.

To make matters worse, him shouting my name down the road has caused people to look curiously in our direction as we stand there face to face in the middle of the road.

“Katniss? Do you have something to tell me?” he asks me. He’s trying to remain calm but he’s losing the battle.

“No,” is all I say.

There’s a hard set to his wide jaw as it clenches and unclenches with his mounting annoyance. I try to walk away again, and he doesn’t step in my way but instead walks in step with me. It’s now that I know he won’t let this go, so I lead him to the backyard of the old, abandoned apothecary my mother’s parents once owned. It’s not completely private, but at least it’s away from the curious eyes on us.

“Who is she, Katniss?”

No matter how I try to fight them, the tears well in my eyes and I’m forced to look away from the pair of blue that are identical to Flower’s. “My baby sister,” I mutter weakly because, at the moment, I can’t even convince myself of the lie I’ve been telling for a little over a year.

“She’s not your baby sister,” he says firmly.

“Does it matter?” I sigh. The weight of the situation is crushing me, and I’m having a hard time breathing.

“Does it matter? Does it matter?” Each word is louder than the last. “If she’s my daughter, our daughter, it matters a whole hell of a lot, Katniss!”

I’m tired and all I want to do is go home. I want to go back to my safe, comfortable life and live in the lie again because it worked that way. I can’t think of myself as a mother or him as the father of my child because it’s too much. Like the day I found out that I was pregnant, it’s too much to think about. I remember crying in my room, unable to do anything else for days until Prim came in and cried with me. She curled around me and begged me not to take the herbs our mother gives to the other Seam girls.

She thought of the idea to raise the baby as our sibling, and begged that I would allow it. She begged that I would let her have a little sister or brother until I relented because she seemed so sure and I had no idea of what to do.

And now I have to face it all over again. One night of weakness, a desperation to be something other than the responsible daughter, filled with drinking and flattering words of love and devotion from a merchant boy. He wasn’t suppose to know, and more importantly, he wasn’t suppose to care. Merchant folk expect this from Seam, expect promiscuity and unexpected pregnancies.

I think of all of the things I’ve heard merchants say about Seam. I think about sweet Prim with no friends and having to walk with the Hawthorne boys for safety, and all of those thoughts make me shiver with new found anger and grit my teeth until what I’m feeling comes out in growled words. “Even if she were, then what? One parent from the Seam, one from town. A Seam girl. She’s Seam Peeta, and you’re not.”

The last thing I say before I leave him behind the old apothecary is, “She’s my sister, Peeta.” He doesn’t follow me, and I’m thankful for it.

* * *

I get home and hear a voice inside the house that doesn't belong to any of my family. I press my body against the wall of the house and hope they can’t see me through the window as I heave to take every single breath. I’m afraid of who it may be. It’s been days since Peeta confronted me, and my first fear was that he’d come to my home for whatever insane reason to declare himself Flower's father.

But the voice isn’t his. The voice is of the eldest Hawthorne and then his father starts to laugh with my father. The three voices together settles my stomach and relaxes my muscles. I ready myself to enter the house when I hear their conversation more clearly.

“I tell you, it was the damnedest thing. The boy came right in as proud as he pleased and we thought it was a prank,” Mr. Hawthorne says. “You know how they like to prank us every now and then.” I hear my father agree just as my heart takes a heavy thud.

“Well, if it was a prank, it was a piss poor one. The boy worked his ass off,” the eldest Hawthorne son says, then quickly adds, “Pardon me, Mrs. Everdeen.”

“At the end of the day, I couldn’t tell him apart from any of the others,” Mr. Hawthorne laughs.

My knees almost buckle as I turn the knob of my home’s front door and try to steady myself and seem unfazed. Prim’s bouncing Flower in her arms while Mr. Hawthorne, his son, and my father sit at the table. All eyes look at me, but then they shift behind me questioningly. I turn and am met with the filthiest creature I’ve ever seen. Even on my father’s worst day, he never looked like this. Still, underneath all of the coal dust, I can make out the small bits of blond, and when the creatures eyes open, they’re so blue they almost glow.

The creature sounds like Peeta when it says my name. “Katniss…” and my heart stops at the words that I never thought but should have known I would one day hear, “…can I see my daughter, now?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This theme has been done several times, and I usually try to avoid those kinds of themes. Unfortunately for me, the one scene from this story that'd been looping in my brain wouldn't go away. I couldn't find an existing work similar enough to read and slay the beast, so my only option was to write it.


	2. Peeta's Side

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So my muse seems to like to work with the past in small bits more than the prequel. I wrote this as a way to explore Peeta's mind before I dive fully into him and the Everdeens.
> 
> Wasn't sure if it was a good idea to add this piece as a chapter, or if it should've been standalone, but I figured with the changes I'm going to make, I better keep it in the same story.

My mother’s on a particularly hellish warpath at the moment, so I try my best to stay clear of her. My brothers and I have narrowed the cause of her hostility down to one of two reasons. It could be that a full tray of our most costly pastries haven’t sold in almost three days. Tomorrow we’ll have to cut the price for them in half, and she really doesn’t like that.  
  
The other reason could be that Madge Undersee brought Primrose and Flower Everdeen to the bakery for some cookies. I can hear them in the front, especially the giggles from little Flower Everdeen as my father dotes on her. He has the itch for grandchildren, my brothers tell me. Probably because my oldest brother’s getting married soon.

I haven't had a chance to get a good look at her, but it’s clear she has the blond hair and blue eyes that comes from her mother, just like Primrose.  
  
They’re waiting for the very cookies I’m taking out of the oven. Just so happened, we were all out when they came and we really didn’t have any plans to make more. The problem is that my father and I have a soft spot of Everdeen girls. The truth is that the eldest Everdeen girl is more than a soft spot for me.  
  
I’ve loved that girl from afar since I was too little to really understand what it was I was feeling. Back then, it was exciting, special to have that secret, to understand what no one my age could. To fall in love.  
  
Now, it’s more like a curse that I live with every day. She hasn’t gone to school since we were thirteen, so at least I don’t have the constant reminder of what I can’t have, but that’s the other problem with my curse. I still want to see her.  
  
Maybe I could have moved on eventually. The night after my fifth reaping, I was kissing Mattie Caulding and for the first time I was really enjoying it. She tasted like Alby’s sweet wine, the stuff he made using the overripe fruits he stole from his family’s fruit and vegetable stand.  
  
I should have kept myself in the moment with my eyes closed and my lips and tongue to hers, but I never really had any good sense when it came to Katniss Everdeen. My eyes opened and there they were, the most beautiful pair of gray eyes staring back at me.  
  
It took Mattie’s voice saying my name for me to realize I’d stopped kissing her. She tried to draw me back in, but her pair of blue eyes were no match for the pair of gray at the far end of the slag heap. Her firm grip on my knee, sliding up my thigh, would have made me as hard as a rock a few minutes ago, but all I was aware of was how Katniss stood from her spot with Madge, telling her friend something, and then left.  
  
Her last look back, at me, and the liquid courage that coursed through my veins was enough to do what I’d never done: be a man and walk up to her.  
  
It was hard to tell if her normal pace was that fast or if she was trying to avoid me. Either way, I wasn’t going to let the moment pass.  
  
“Katniss! Katniss Everdeen,” I called to her, letting her know that I knew her name.  
  
She stopped and turned to me. “Peeta Mellark.”  
  
The haze of wine and some white liquor passed around had my thoughts a bit muddled, but it did surprise me that she knew my name. If anything, it helped boost my resolve to finally say to Katniss what I’ve always wanted to say.  
  
And there we were, standing on the road that would lead to the Seam or to town, and her dark hair shining in the light of the nearly full moon, her lips parted, and her gray eyes steady with mine when the silence stretched uncomfortably so.  
  
“Do you mind if I walk with you so that I can walk off this buzz? I can’t go home like this.” I managed to say. It was an outright lie on both counts. I was more than buzzed, and I could easily go home like this. My mother sleeps like the dead and my father wouldn’t care. But it was a possible opportunity to try again.  
  
She shrugged which gave me some hope that I could salvage the situation from my hopelessness. It didn’t. The entire walk, I couldn’t think of the words. All I could muster were some awkward mumblings about the weather or ask how her little sister was doing. “Primrose, right?”  
  
“Yeah,” she answered. It was a disaster. I was usually better than that, but then I realized just how much the universe was laughing at me. I couldn’t get up the courage to talk to her sober, and I couldn’t think of the right words when drunk. That’s when I knew I had no chance.  
  
The road fanned out into nothing but gravel and dirt until it was nothing but dirt and grass and a few scraggly looking trees. It occurred to me that we were in the meadow at the end of the road, which meant we’d passed the last house, we’d passed her house, whichever one it was back there.  
  
“Oh, I’m sorry,” I began, ready to apologize for taking her too far, even though she was the one who didn’t tell me when to stop, but I didn’t have the chance because she had a fistful of my shirt and her lips were on mine before I could get my addled brain to understand what the hell was going on.  
  
Her lips tasted like wine, too. Not as sweet as Mattie’s but so much better that I knew right then and there that I would want to taste them for the rest of my life.  
  
My mind finally caught up, so my body followed. I wrapped my arms around her waist and kissed her back in earnest with my tongue following the seam of her lips until she parted them for me. The first caress of our tongues brought out a moan from her that had my heart thumping in my chest and my ears.  
  
We pulled apart for some air, and that’s when the words came. “I’ve wanted this for so long,” I told her, cupping her face in my hands. “I love you.” Fear glistened in her eyes, but then it gave way to excitement which was all the encouragement I needed to lean in for that second kiss. And third. And fourth. And then I lost track when we knelt down on the hard-packed ground and flung our shirts to who knew and who cared where.  
  
I didn’t want to stop at her lips, not when I had a half naked Katniss in my arms. I wanted to taste her cheek, the shell of her ear. “I’ve loved you for most of my life,” I told her as I didn’t have any problems finding the words anymore. The lobe of her ear, the soft patch of skin right below it. I left a trail of kisses along the length of her neck, over her collarbone, down her chest until—”  
  
“Katniss, I was just telling Prim, here, that your baby sister is the cutest thing,” I hear my father say, and my body’s reaction would’ve been funny—I’m already aroused, but hearing my father’s voice poured ice water on that real quick—if not for the fact that Katniss isn’t going to be my wife like I’d hoped. She won’t even be my girlfriend. Her words to me after…later that night made sure of it. “You’re from town and I’m Seam, Peeta. Let’s be honest. This isn’t real, and we both know it.”  
  
My heart’s breaking for a second time as I think about her words, her indifference to what we shared, and having to face her, now. This is the reason why I’m studying so much, so that I can transfer to District Four. They need a baker. I’m a baker.  
  
I take the tray in my gloved hands and straighten my back before I push the door to the front with my shoulder. Primrose and Flower can have their cookies, and Katniss won’t know just how bad I hurt.  
  
Except, Katniss looks like she’s seen a ghost as pale as her face is; her eyes are wide and on my father and Flower. There is something strange in seeing my father with the little Everdeen girl, but that’s probably because I’ve never seen my father hold a child other than us boys when we were young.  
  
The little girl suddenly pulls her fingers from her mouth and traces one on my father’s eyebrows, his eyelids, his nose, and I almost laugh. It’s the very thing my father always loves to remind me that I did at Flower’s age. And my father says as much, “My youngest used to do that all the time. His special way of finger painting.”  
  
Somehow, him saying it doesn’t stir up memories from my childhood, but stirs up something else in my belly. I glance over at Katniss and she’s paler than before. I didn’t think that was possible which makes me follow her line of sight back to my father and Flower.  
  
The look of the little Everdeen girl isn’t a lot like Mr. or Mrs. Everdeen. Not Prim. A little like Katniss.  
  
“You said her name’s Flour? Like bread flour?” my father asks and I think that’s silly. Flour would be a Mellark name. Mellark. Flower’s nose looks a lot like my father’s nose. The same nose I inherited from him, and the eye color isn’t the light shade of colbalt like Primrose or their mother. It’s the color of the sky, like my father, and my eldest brother…and me.  
  
I do the math in my head, but I barely have time before Katniss snatches Flower from my father and runs out of the bakery. All of us are speechless, blinking and staring at each other in utter confusion, but it’s Prim to unfreeze first and chase after her. I’m right behind them, leaving a tray of ruined cookies on the floor and my poor father and Madge completely lost.  
  
“Katniss, stop!” I call out as Prim asks her to slow down, but she won’t. She’s already halfway through town, so the time it takes me to run and try to catch up to her I use to think.  
  
Back in March, Katniss traded three squirrels and a haunch of venison for a cake, telling my father it was her baby sister’s first birthday. One year and nine months before that would be around the time of our fifth reaping, the seventy-fourth reaping. That's right around the time we…yeah. I remember Katniss didn’t trade that winter at all. In fact, the only word anyone heard from her was through Prim when she delivered something to Cray every week on her way to school with the the Hawthorne boys.  
  
I finally catch up to her, but she’s still running and in better shape for the race than me, but I’m still able to reach for her arm and pull it back enough to slow her down considerably. That’s when I step in front of her so that she can’t run away so easily, soaking in the toddler’s features. Definitely Mellark features. I can feel the muscles of my face tightening, twisting as the same thoughts echo in my head over and over again: She’s my daughter! Katniss didn’t tell me!  
  
Flower turns away from me and buries her face in Katniss’s chest and starts to tremble all over which eases my facial muscles and my temperament. I'm pretty sure she is, but whether she is my daughter or not, I don’t want to scare the poor girl.  
  
“Katniss,” I start, struggling to bring calm to my voice, but I’m distracted by the Mellark blue eyes peeking from blond curls. Just as quick as that, Katniss hands Flower to Primrose who I hadn’t noticed has been standing beside Katniss all this time. She tells her sister, her real sister, to take Flower home. Primrose is confused and about to ask questions but her eyes move from Flower to me and I see it right there! She’s come to the same conclusion that I have. That’s when Primrose leaves for the Seam, leaving me and Katniss to settle this.  
  
We will settle this. We have to, so I can’t allow her to run away again.  
  
“Katniss? Do you have something to tell me?” I ask, giving her the opportunity to come clean.  
  
“No,” is all she says to me. So much for that.  
  
She starts to walk away, but I don’t give up. This is too important, too much at stake, so I follow her to the old, abandoned apothecary and wait for her to stop again. “Who is she, Katniss?”  
  
“My baby sister,” she insists, but her resolve is crumbling. There are already tears in her eyes and she can’t even look me in the face anymore.  
  
“She’s not your baby sister,” I tell her because I’m sure of it. All I need right now is to hear it from her.  
  
“Does it matter?”  
  
The words sting. It’s confirmation of sorts, but the idea that it wouldn’t matter hurts, and I lose any semblance of a calm, reasonable tone. “Does it matter? Does it matter? If she’s my daughter, our daughter, it matters a whole hell of a lot, Katniss!”  
  
She looks beaten by life, but in my anger I can’t say I care. I’ve had a daughter for over a year. A daughter with the only woman I ever wanted. Not settle for, but wanted. The image of having Katniss in my arms as my wife with a bunch of little copies of her and me running around, the image I’d always had but dared to believe could happen after I held her in my arms that night and was promptly shattered by her words that night. Half that dream was here.  
  
“Even if she were, then what? One parent from the Seam, one from town. A Seam girl. She’s Seam Peeta, and you’re not.”  
  
I’m stunned…again. Is that what’s bothering her. Is it that important to her?  
  
“She’s my sister, Peeta,” she tells me with finality before walking away, this time in the direction of the Seam. I’m too stunned to follow her this time, but even as I try to figure out what’s going on inside Katniss Everdeen’s head, I’ve already settled on a solution to her reason for why Flower can't be our daughter.  
  
I’m not going to District Four like I’d planned. I’m going to stay right here in my district. I’m eighteen, I can legally quit school and work in the mines. Hopefully I’ll have some time with my daughter before the seventy-sixth reaping because I get the feeling the odds aren’t in my favor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I got Peeta's voice. Please tell me what you guys think.


	3. What Happens After...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After having a lot of problems with the prequel, I've decided to work on the sequel with bits of the past sprinkled in. It's a direct continuation from the end of the one-shot which is why I'm combining it with the original story in the hopes of having as little confusion as possible. Let's see if this version works for my muse.
> 
> Also, please note the change in rating.
> 
> A quick warning. I did not have a beta for this story so please continue with that in mind.

_“Katniss, can I see my daughter, now?”_  
  
I blink several times as though that will make the hallucination go away, but it won’t. Peeta still stands on the steps with his blue eyes bright and practically glowing against his coal dust covered skin and hair, and after Mr. Hawthorne clears his throat and tells my father that it’s time for him and his son to leave, I know everyone in the room heard.  
  
The Hawthornes walk by me, and Peeta steps to the side to let them pass. It’s quick, but I notice the way the eldest Hawthorne son sizes up Peeta before he passes. All of this must seem bewildering to him, because I know it’s bewildering for me. Merchant boys don’t acknowledge their Seam children, and they certainly don’t work in the mines for them.  
  
“Who’s that there?” my father asks, and although the name repeats itself over and over in my head, my lips and tongue have trouble forming the name. Peeta takes the last step to our house and stands at the threshold. “Peeta Mellark, sir,” he says very clearly to my father, and I watch helplessly as he motions for Peeta to come inside and to the table where he sits.  
  
There’s a long silence as my mother’s eyes, filled with a million unspoken questions, land on me. Prim buries her face in Flower’s crown while the toddler stares at the stranger with bright, wide eyes. Peeta’s eyes. My father gets a good look at Peeta. I don’t miss the way his gaze flicks from Peeta to Flower and back. “Daughter, huh?”  
  
“Yes, sir.”  
  
“It’s been over a year, boy.” My father’s tone is rough and his scowl—the very one many say I’ve inherited from him—deepens at the miner in front of him.  
  
“Just found out days ago, sir.”  
  
With that answer, all eyes come to me. Even Flower’s when she notices I’m suddenly the center of everyone’s attention. I open my mouth to say something, to defend myself, but nothing comes out. By the time I’m able to manage a pathetic, “I…” my father speaks over me, asking my mother to help him get some air.  
  
Prim’s the first one out of the house with Flower, not able to look in my direction. My mother helps my father to the door, and as they step through it, I turn to leave with them. The very thought of being left in the room with Peeta leaves me heaving for every breath.  
  
My father turns as though he expected to see me right behind him, and I stop short when his head shakes. I know that look, the hard set of his eyes and mouth. I’m to stay put and face this like a woman. A quick glance at the other side of the room and Peeta quirks his brows at me in time to hear the scrape of wood against wood before the loud click. My father and mother closed the door, trapping me inside with Peeta Mellark, the father of my child.

One quick thought in panic is to sprint into one of the two bedrooms and prop a chair against the door to lock myself in, but the look my father gave me says that I will have this talk with Peeta even if they have to strap me to a chair.  
  
The absolute silence in the house rattles me even more because I can't remember a time when it was ever so. Old houses usually make their own sounds, and this house has always been full, always filled with some sound or another. Even at night there are the soft sleeping sounds of my family.  
  
“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asks me, shattering the silence so suddenly that I jump.  
  
His voice is heavy and sounds so beaten. I’m not sure if it’s our situation or working in the mines all day or both.  
  
“Boys from town don’t care,” is all I offer. It’s the truth, but the fact that he's taken a job in the mines and openly acknowledges Flower as his daughter, it feels hollow at the moment.  
  
“So you thought I wouldn’t care?” is what he asks me as I hear the other question behind it as well. _How could you think such a thing after what I’d told you that night?_  
  
It's not like I'd forgotten anything of what he said. In fact, I remember every detail of that night. I remember when he told me he loved me as he kissed my lips. “I’ve loved you for most of my life,” he whispered in my ear just before his tongue flicked at the lobe and worked its way down to the sensitive area just below it. “You’re so beautiful,” he moaned, trailing further down to the nipple he chose to tease.  
  
His adoration was just as intoxicating as the wine Madge stole from her father’s collection, no matter his intentions behind it. For once, I wasn’t the protector and sole provider of my family but just a girl with a boy doing what they do. I was the focus of his attention, and it felt good. His words of love were the very thing I needed, so long as I let myself believe them for the time, but not much more than that. He laid there beside me, spent and grinning like a fool, and I listened to his pants calm into heavy breathing. “You’re all I ever wanted,” he breathed after gulping air. “Marry me.”

For a whole minute, I allowed myself to believe his words, all of them. I allowed myself to believe that a boy from town could love me and that I could have something close to what my parents had. It was only for a minute before bitter reality sobered my thoughts.  
  
It’s not like it’s a secret in District Twelve. I’ve seen enough heartbroken Seam girls convinced into believing the declarations of love and promises of something more than a quick romp at the slag heap, and I’m sure Peeta knows plenty of boys from town who’ve doled those very declarations and promises out.

“Boys say things they don’t mean when…” I let the rest die on my tongue because I can’t say the words “having sex” aloud. It’s strange since that’s exactly what we did and have a beautiful daughter to show for it, but that was almost two years ago, and I’m still not prepared to face all of this. “Besides,” I mutter, “it was best for everyone this way.”  
  
“How, Katniss? How is it best for me? You took away from me everything I ever wanted.” There’s a mixture of pain and anger in his voice that he’s trying to keep under control, but failing as this conversation continues. His words make me angry instantly, blaming me for whatever it is he wanted, but it’s the pain in his voice that helps me keep that in check as much as I can. “What did I take from you?”  
  
“I told you, the only thing I ever wanted was you! To have a family with you!” I fold my arms rather than argue with him about this. We’ve already established that anything he said that night was questionable. “You didn’t want to marry me; you made it very clear that night. I learned to accept that because it was your decision, but you kept _her_ from me. I missed over a year of her life. Did you know I applied to transfer to another district?”  
  
That’s news to me, but it does explain why he’s been studying so diligently, even in his final year of school. Most people do the bare minimum, just enough to pass their classes. High scores by graduation mean absolutely nothing to those destined for the mines or running the family business, but for those looking to move to another district, the higher the scores the better.  
  
Most wouldn’t try, though. Switching districts means a life of being singled out, the stranger in a district full of people who have grown up together since birth. Even here, in Twelve, those who've come from other districts are less welcome than even Seam.  
  
“Why would you do that?”  
  
“It was only a matter of time before you decided to marry someone else, and I didn’t want to be here when you did. I didn’t want to be here and watch him have the life I wanted. My grades were high enough, and I was told I was a shoe in for an approval.” His brows furrow deep and his lips curl into a sneer that's full of resentment. It doesn't sit well on his face because he is kind and gentle. At least he was before all of this. “I almost left here, and I would never have known that I had half of my dream here in Twelve!”  
  
Even as his angry tone raises my hackles, the guilt settles in deep. There’s a part of me, a selfish part, that wishes he never found out and did go to another district. Then nothing would’ve ever changed. My parents and Prim would never have known who Flower’s father is and I could still be big sister instead of someone’s mother, but he did find out and and they do know. And I am someone’s mother.  
  
My body feels heavier than it did before this conversation. “What do we do, now?”  
  
“I want to see her.” It’s not a demand, but a plea which only helps spread my guilt through every dark corner of my conscience. The words are just about to come out, a suggestion for him to come visit this weekend, but—misreading what I’m about to offer—he explains, “I live in the Seam, now, if you were thinking about bringing Flower to the bakery.”  
  
My offer is completely derailed by this bit of news. “The Seam? Why?” He works in the mines, but he lives in the bakery. At least, that’s what I thought.  
  
“After I told my parents that I was taking a job in the mines and why, my mother told me I couldn’t stay with them anymore. I’m eighteen, so I went to the justice building and was assigned a house near the mines.”  
  
Those are the one room houses they assign to single adults without children. They’re the worst in all of District Twelve because they are the closest to the mines with the most coal dust.  
  
“I tried to explain to them that I need a house with at least one bedroom for my daughter, but it seems I can’t have one because she’s not officially my daughter.”  
  
There’s no accusation in his voice, but all the same it adds to the already overwhelming guilt. Here is the boy who saved my family, working in the mines and living in those crumbling houses that are the worst of what not only District Twelve but the Seam have to offer.  
  
There is a fix for this. It's not simple because my parents are Flower's parents as far as the Capitol is concerned, but they say there are ways to prove otherwise.  Just one swab of Flower’s cheek compared to his DNA as well as mine on file and a few papers signed. A cold chill runs down my spine as I think about having to go into town with Peeta and Flower in tow. Having to change the place where it says "mother" and see my name. Change where it says "father" and see his name. I'm not ready for this.  
  
“Please, Katniss," he pleads, more than likely noticing the fear growing in my eyes and how my body is shaking. "Allow me to see my daughter before I lose anymore time?” he asks me, reminding me that I never gave him the offer for a visit with her. His plea, begging me to see his own daughter breaks me, forcing me to admit defeat, to say the words I haven’t yet uttered aloud.  
  
“She’s your daughter, Peeta. Of course I’ll allow it.” My voice cracks, and I’m shaking, hard. My whole body’s trembling violently at the words that make it one step closer to real for me.  
  
He hesitates for a moment, perhaps considering whether or not to hold me, but eventually decides that keeping his distance is the best thing at the moment. We barely know each other. There was the day he gave me the two loaves of bread, and then there was that night. Those were significant moments in my life, and as I’m learning at least one of them was for him as well, but otherwise we’re strangers to each other. Strangers who have a child together.  
  
“We’ll work out the details tomorrow,” he says while walking past me quickly. I’m so drained that all I can give him is a nod, not sure if he sees it on his way to the door. Before he opens it, he turns back to give me the warmest, brightest smile behind the dark layers of coal dust.  
  
My parents and Prim are outside at the bottom of the stairs while Flower is nearby doing something on the ground that I can’t see.  
  
“Have a good evening, Mr. and Mrs. Everdeen,” Peeta says to them politely, shaking their hands. My father is the one to do more than offer a simple farewell. “It’s good to see you, Mellark. Hope to see you again soon.” The tone of his voice and the look in his eyes tells me that it’s more than a hope, it’s an expectation. I’m sure Peeta’s picked this up as well.  
  
It’s clear he does when he quickly says to my father, “Tomorrow,” which earns him a nod of approval and a relaxed, “Good, good.”  
  
By the time he’s near Prim to say a polite goodbye to her, Flower toddlers up to them both and offers Peeta something. He kneels down to her and holds up whatever it is to his face, and I realize that it’s a dandelion. My eyes close and I sigh at how very fitting it is.  
  
“Thank you,” he says to her with a bright smile, and she immediately smiles back. With them face to face this way, there are two things that are now painfully clear: there’s no doubt that she is his daughter, and Flower inherited nothing more from me than a hint of olive to her skin. I watch him watching her and expect him to hug her, kiss her forehead or something. It’s all in his eyes, but he doesn’t. Instead, he kisses the flower and slides the stem into her blond curls.  
  
“Beautiful,” he says and Flower beams at him. I know he doesn't want to go, but he does, walking down the road that dead ends in town. What hurts more than I expect is that I remember he’s not going to town, he’s going to the one-room, coal-dust covered shack he now calls home.


	4. Family Talk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A lot of this chapter was written with the second chapter. Didn't take long after that. Also, I changed the order of the chapters.
> 
> Thanks to everyone who has commented, kudo'd, and bookmarked. My muse seems to like the memories rather than prequel for this story, and I'm sure all of the feedback has fed the little beast as well.

We go about our evening as we normally would with Prim doing her homework, my mother cooking dinner and my father playing with Flower on his good leg while I skin what was in my bag. He bounces her until she giggles. When he stops, she says one of the few words she knows, which happens to be the first word any of us has uttered since Peeta left. “More!” she demands and my father obliges. It wasn’t that long ago when she said her very first word. An event that sent Prim into a fit of high pitched squeals and caused my mother’s eyes to go shiny and wet. Flower opened and closed her fists as she said, “mama.” It was to my mother.  
  
If I’m going to be honest with myself now that everything is out in the open, it hurt. I felt that twinge of jealousy, but I didn’t want to think about it too much. I refused to let myself think about it for more than that moment. It’s strange that it’s on my mind, now, but with the silence all around me and what’s happened today, it’s not that surprising.  
  
Even throughout dinner, no one says a word. Tin spoons scape against tin bowls as my father and mother share glances right before their eyes dart towards me and back down to their food. Prim never looks up from her bowl except to help Flower who abandoned her spoon early in the meal, choosing instead to grab chunks of opossum and wild carrots with her small fingers. Prim or my mother usually insist that she try a few more times before allowing her to do so, but not tonight.  
  
I’m the last to finish my bowl, but that’s only because I’m shifting the food around. My stomach is tied in a knot, and the food my mother cooked that I know would taste delicious otherwise tastes like coal dust in my mouth. Coal dust like what covers the place where Peeta now calls home.  
  
I can’t help but think about him and what his life’s become. The only thing to distract me from the image of Peeta alone and surrounded by four walls that can never be cleaned fully is my father telling Prim to put Flower to bed.  
  
My little sister lifts her head from the empty bowl in front of her right before my mother takes it from the table. Prim nods and takes a clean rag to wipe the mess Flower’s made before lifting the toddler into her arms.  
  
Flower’s chin rests on Prim’s shoulder as they leave for our bedroom. Her eyes are wide and stare off at nothing in particular: the first sign that she’s tired and ready for bed. There’s a hint of a smile on her face that reminds me of Peeta. Until he found out about Flower, that was something else I never allowed myself to think about.  
  
My mother continues to clear the rest of the bowls from the table as my father eyes me. The questions are just below the surface, and I realize my father and mother have been waiting for Flower to go to bed before we talk. All we’re doing now is waiting for Prim to tell us that she’s sleeping.  
  
It’s a few minutes, about the time it takes Flower to drift off to sleep, before Prim reemerges from the room, gently closing the door behind her. It’s my mother who doesn’t hesitate to begin. “I guessed it was someone from town, but Peeta Mellark?” There’s something in the way she says “Mellark” that sounds odd. I open my mouth to answer, even though I’m not really sure what I’ll say, but I don’t have time to answer because my father cuts in with his own questions.  
  
“You didn’t tell him? All this time, Katniss?”  
  
“I couldn’t,” I answer, but my father’s eyes are hard on me, and I know that look. Most times my father can tell me exactly what he’s thinking by just a look, and this is one of those times.  
  
“He’s from town, Daddy. You know how they are, what they think of us. How they feel about their little ‘accidents’ in the Seam.” I can’t help but look at my mother. For some reason, it feels as though I’ve insulted her, but it’s the truth. She used to live with them, hear what they had to say about Seam first hand. Of all of us, she should know this truth the most. I think she does when her gaze drops down to her shoes.  
  
“It’s clear this one’s not like that. He wants to see his daughter, and I can’t fault him for it, but I do wonder why he chose to work in the mines,” my father lets out a sigh. “I wonder why he did that.”  
  
I don’t offer a reason. I’m not sure why, but I can’t tell my father about the argument I had with Peeta in the yard of the old, abandoned apothecary. There’s no doubt Peeta’s working in the mines was his reaction to what I told him: “She’s Seam, Peeta. She’s Seam, and you’re not.”  And now, Peeta is Seam. He works in the Seam, he lives in the Seam, and it’s my fault.  
  
She’s been so quiet that I’d almost forgotten she was in the room, Prim asks with a voice barely above a whisper, “What does he want?”  
  
It’s an easy question. “He wants to see Flower.”  
  
“Will he come here or will he want her in town?” Prim asks, and even though she manages to keep her voice under control, there’s a look in her eyes as though she’s lost everything which concerns me, but I don’t have time to dwell on that when I’m facing questions at every turn. Instead, I concentrate solely on answering her. I’ll figure out her concern later.  
  
On the other hand, her question does remind me that they don’t know what I’d only learned about today, so I shake my head. It feels so heavy and full of thoughts that I rest it in my hands on the table.  
  
“He doesn’t live at the bakery anymore. His mother told him to leave, so now he lives in one of the houses near the mines.”  
  
There’s a soft gasp from where my mother stands, and I look up to see her mouth parted in shock with her hand resting on her chest. Prim’s face isn’t much different.  
  
My father, however, starts to rub at the stubble forming on his jaw. “What kind of man is he? Father or not, I don’t want my granddaughter around just anyone.”  
  
The answer slips out faster than I can stop it. “I don’t know. We’d only met once before that ni…” As I watch my father’s brows sink lower and lower I can’t finish the sentence.  
  
It suddenly occurs to me that he thought I had been in love, that I was one of the many Seam girls to believe the lies that town boys tell. It’s clear by the scowl on his face that he would have preferred it that way, which does nothing but bring about my own scowl, identical to his. I may have made mistakes, like any other girl in our district, but at least I made them knowing fully what was real and what wasn’t. I wasn’t tricked into this situation, and that’s a fact that I’m proud of.  
  
So I say to my father, “I just wanted one night to be like any other girl and have fun.” I meant for it to be calm, but with my hurt feelings, it’s anything but. He’s left me feeling defensive. “And I picked the one boy that I could allow myself to trust for one night.”  
  
The growing disapproval I see on my father’s face shifts slightly into confusion, then something else I can’t identify. “You said you’d only met him once before. How could you trust him?”  
  
With his words, I realize why I couldn’t identify the look on his face. It’s one I’ve never seen him use, at least when speaking with me. It’s mistrust, skepticism. he doesn’t trust what I’m saying. I’ve never lied to my father. I may not tell the whole story, but there’s a difference, and it hurts that he doesn’t see that difference. I’ve kept this family alive for six years; I think I’m entitled to my secrets, but in that time I’ve never lied to my family only to have my father question my honesty. The pain sparks my anger into a blaze with all of its fire directed at him.  
  
“Peeta gave this family hope when we had none left. He gave us food when we were so close to dying. When you’d all but abandoned us. When all you could see were your injuries and not that your family was starving to death. He took a beating from his mother so that he could sneak two loaves of bread to me. Didn’t you ever wonder how your eleven year old daughter came home with two loaves of fresh baked bread? Did you think I went to Cray? Would you rather I’d gone to Cray?”  
  
The room is silent again, more of that awkward silence I’d experienced with Peeta earlier in the evening. Prim’s eyes are wide and I have to wonder if it’s the news that shocks her or how I’ve spoken to our father.  
  
I know it was wrong to disrespect him this way, and the prickle at the surface of my skin and in my eyes is my involuntary reaction to the guilt. I can feel the tears burning to be free, and I rush out of the room and into the bedroom I share with my sisters—no, my sister and my daughter—and close the door behind me. I lean my forehead against the cool wood and stifle the sob that wracks my body at that moment. I can’t wake Flower, and I can’t have them hear me cry.  
  
I undress and slip into my nightclothes which allows my eyes time to adjust to the slight light of the moon flowing through the open window. It’s enough to see Flower curled up in the center of the bed. Sliding in on my side of the bed, she immediately curls into me. My arm wraps around her, drawing her in closer. She’s so little, and yet has grown so much.  
  
When she was born, she reminded me of Prim with her wisps of platinum hair, blue eyes, and tiny fingers and toes. I couldn’t help but stare at her until I started to see Peeta’s features in her face. That was the last time I allowed myself to look too closely, until recently.  
  
The door of the bedroom opens then closes gently. I can just make out the shape of Prim as she prepares for bed before she slips in on the other side of Flower and into the moonlight. She’s laying on her back, staring at the ceiling. At first, I think she may be going to sleep, but then she asks me, “Do you think he’ll try to take Flower from us?”  
  
Finally, she makes her fear known. There’s only one instance of that happening that I can remember. It’s an old story from when I was little older than Flower and I heard my mother and one of her patients talking. A Seam girl got pregnant by a boy from town. He was their only child. She gave birth to a baby boy after the merchant boy died of pneumonia, and when the boy’s parents saw that their grandson looked more merchant than Seam, they demanded that the child live with them in town.  
  
They didn’t want the mother, only the child. Even threatened to take the matter to the Justice Building which costs a fair bit of coin. Coin that the Seam girl and her family didn’t have. I’ve seen the boy in town working in his family’s grocery stand. He calls his grandparents “Mama” and “Daddy” and is as merchant as they come.  
  
I can’t see Peeta doing anything of the sort, and I definitely can’t see his family doing something like what Alby’s grandparents did. “Of course not,” I say to soothe Prim’s worries, but as soon as the words leave my lips, my doubts flood in. I don’t know Peeta well enough to make that guess without doubts. I feel in my gut that he’s a good man and would never do such a thing, but then again, would a man who gave up practically everything for Flower settle for visits once or twice a week?  
  
The saddest part about all of this, though, is my only comfort. He’s Seam, now, which means he probably won’t be able to afford to take this to the Justice Building if he wanted to. 

* * *

I wake up to the sounds of shuffling across the common room floor. Flower’s still tucked in against me with Prim on her other side. They are usually the only ones to get up before me and it makes me curious enough to work my way free from Flower without waking her and slide out of bed.  
  
The bedroom door is open just enough to see my father struggling to sit himself in his chair, so I rush to his side and help him. Once he’s settled, he looks up at me with sorrowful eyes, and I know I’m the cause. The entire conversation from last night comes back to me.  
  
“I’m sorry, Daddy,” I say as I drop down to my knees in front of him, resting my head on his lap.  
  
His good hand strokes my hair. “You have nothing to be sorry for, my baby girl,” he says to me, using what he used to call me before Prim was born. “Because of me, you’ve carried the burden of caring for this family.”  
  
At that, I look up at him, the tears that were just starting to well in my eyes are already racing down my cheeks as I shake my head. “No, Daddy!” In my anger last night I was spiteful and knew what I said and how I said it would lead him to feel this way. I wish I could take it all back.  
  
“I don’t regret anything!” I say to him because I don’t. My family’s alive and better fed than most families in the Seam. And that night after my fifth reaping, I wanted to be like the average girl in our district just once. I got that, and then some.  
  
The “then some” being a squalling, blond newborn after thirty-one hours of the most excruciating pain I’ve ever experienced. And I once fell from a tree and hit several branches on the way down.  
  
With the fears of having to feed another mouth and having to worry about one more person during reapings, I didn’t want children. Somehow, convincing myself of the lie I agreed to made it easier. Sister. Not daughter, sister. Doesn’t make any sense, but it worked. And the walls around my heart crumbled and I began to love Flower. Getting used to the idea of having a baby sister was relatively easy. Being a mother scares me to death.  
  
My father reaches for my head with his good hand and draws me in so that he can kiss my forehead. There’s a small creak from my bedroom door, and Prim steps out with Flower in her arms. Prim’s curious but says nothing as she sets Flower on the floor to gather her school books. They’re stacked just so to give Flower the perfect height to eat at the table. With a wide yawn and her eyes half closed, Flower sways on her feet as though she may fall back to sleep on the spot before Prim scoops her up and sets her on the books.  
  
I hear rustling in my parents’ room which means my mother’s awake as well. The day is beginning, and I have some hunting and trading to do before the evening comes, before Peeta comes back here after work. So I stand and kiss my father on his cheek. “I love you, Daddy,” I tell him. There aren’t enough sorries in the world to even come close to how I feel.  
  
“I love you, too, my baby girl,” he says to me, giving me a smile that’s strained, and the sorrow hasn’t left his eyes. It hurts that I’m the one who put it there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _A comment a day keeps the writer's block away!_


	5. Understanding Each Other

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took so long. I'm kind of at a crossroads here when it comes to writing in general, and I'm desperately trying to focus and complete my unfinished stories.
> 
> This chapter was almost 5000 chapters. I don't like to have lengthy chapters so I did what many of you will be very upset over. Yes... I split it, and Peeta doesn't return until the second half which will be up within the week. If it makes you guys feel any better, there will eventually be K & P and K & P & F only chapters. Just not right now.

I’m usually halfway to the woods by now, but I linger at home for a while longer.  I take it upon myself to clean Flower of the breakfast mush while Prim prepares for school.  
  
The blonde haired, blue eyed toddler stands in front of me—only moments ago placed on the floor to free up the stack of Prim's books—and the mess is far worse than I thought, having managed to make it's way into her hair as well her face and night clothes.  
  
She looks up at me expectantly and her expression causes my stomach to tightening painfully. It’s Peeta's face that I see staring back at me, waiting for the answer to his question: "Who is she, Katniss?"  
  
No matter that he knows, I ignore the nagging truth in my head—so different from the answer I'd given him that day—and start to work with one of the clean cloths from the kitchen.  Flower is nothing but cooperative, patient even, being that I haven't done this for quite some time. Really, it was only months before, but for a one year old, it was a lifetime ago.  
  
It was the time when the icebox was filled with my milk. Ice, yet another need to trade for, was worth all of the extra effort given the freedom it afforded me, far more than any other with a child weeks or months old at home.  
  
Even with that freedom, though, my mother insisted that I feed her in the mornings before I left out for the woods and for her last meal in the evenings. Back then, I felt unfairly tethered to the mouth latched at my breast, the face that had to be cleaned of milk laden dribbles. It was such a relief when she was fully weaned. We no longer have the added expense of ice, and Prim has been more than happy to take on the responsibility of feeding her in the mornings and evenings.  
  
And over time, the resentment's completely faded, and all that remains is remembering how she was once so small in the crook of my arm. There's a warmth that pulls at the corners of my lips into a smile that she returns easily, and as I finish with her hands and move on to her face. Flower wiggles her body as well as her fingers making my job a little bit harder, but I don't mind, especially when she starts to warble with her movements.  
  
She's trying out high and low sounds, testing the limits of her voice. There's a pattern to the sounds she makes, and then it occurs to me that she’s trying to match her voice to mine. I was singing.  
  
I'm surprised that I was doing it without realizing and am startled silent. Flower giggles before she begins her next round of sounds without me.  
  
“I practice with her during the day," my father tells me. "She’ll have a good voice. A decent voice like yours and mine.”  
  
There's a swell of pride that I can add one more thing to the very short list of traits she's inherited from me. I turn my attention back to Flower who's becoming a little fidgety. I'm no where as efficient at this as Prim or my mother, and I've reached the end of her youthful patience which means I have to work fast or she might spend most of the day with mush crusted cheeks and hair.  
  
Prim steps out of our bedroom in her school clothes at the same time our mother leaves our parents' bedroom. A quick glance at Flower and I know Prim's quietly critiquing my shortcomings when it comes to Flower's care. She's too kind to voice them which makes me love my little sister even more.  
  
My mother, however, doesn't have the same kindness. "You should spend more mornings here. It'll be good for Flower." _And for you_ , I hear her voice in my mind.  
  
At least she didn't say it outright, how I need more practice caring for my own daughter. Not my sister, my daughter.  
  
There's a new round of fear that bubbles to the surface, along with the wish that we could go back to the way things were. The feeling only worsens when my mother gathers the ingredients for dinner. It's not the typical amount of food, more than enough to feed the five of us. "Why so much food?" I ask without giving it much thought, because if I had, I wouldn’t have asked at all. I would have avoided the topic completely. The answer is so obvious to me once the last word slips from my lips. Peeta's coming tonight.  
  
"Katniss, what will Peeta do for dinner?" my mother asks me. "Working all day and then to come here straight after, he wouldn't have time to make it for himself."  
  
She's right. Most miners marry early or live in their parents' house. There's always someone at home to make the meals because miner's hours don't leave much time for it. Coming here after work yesterday as well as today, Peeta has been sacrificing precious time for meals.  
  
My lips part as though I'm going to say something, but what can I say to that? At every turn, Peeta sacrifices for his daughter. His Seam daughter.  
  
A knock at the door distracts me as I watch Prim leave Flower to answer it. Standing there is the second oldest Hawthorne boy, Rory, with a sour look on his face. It's not clear if he just woke up on the wrong side of the bed or if he's irritated having to be here. It could very well be both.  
  
"Morning," he mutters, and Prim greets him back, adding, "I'm almost ready." She quickly gathers her books while the boy sneaks a peek inside the house. His eyes land on Flower and don’t move from there. I'm sure his father or brother told their family of what happened, of how a strange merchant boy acknowledged his child in the Seam and took a job in the mines.  
  
It _is_ something to gawk at; I understand that much. A merchant acknowledging they have a kid somewhere in the Seam happens. Usually, it's done around friends who then pat him on the back and congratulate him on his conquest. It's unheard of, at least nothing I've ever heard of, for a merchant boy to willingly drop everything at eighteen, still reaping age, and take a job in the mines for his Seam kid. Not even a Seam boy would do that.  
  
Rory's eyes flick up to mine. Caught staring, he gives me polite nod before turning away, embarrassed.  
  
There's movement behind him, and I can just make out the youngest Hawthorne boy, Vick, amusing himself by pretending to shoot some imaginary target with his imaginary bow and arrow. I wonder if they know that very skill is the reason why they're here waiting for Prim. All because I forced myself to work up the courage to approach a then fourteen year old Gale Hawthorne with a request while he checked his snares.  
  
“I’ll teach you to use a bow,” I offered him as he unbound the limp rabbit carcass from one snare.  
  
“Why would you even need me and my brothers to walk your little sister to and from school?” he asked me, not bothering to look at me as he removed his hunting knife from his belt and started to dress the carcass. There was no doubt what I needed would take some negotiation so I took a seat on an exposed tree root and settled in.  
  
“You heard about the girl. What those two merchant boys did to her.” Of course he knew. Most, if not everyone in the district, knew what happened by then since the poor girl's parents confronted the two boys and their families in front of the Justice Building for all to see and hear. Unfortunately, I was there to hear her mother recount what had happened. I really wish I weren't.  
  
Gale had let out a disgusted grunt before he stabbed his knife into the dirt. “Yeah. Addy Bellweather.”  
  
“I don’t want that to happen to my sister.”  
  
He finally turned to face me. “How will us walking your little sister to and from school a couple of days help with that?”  
  
“I don’t want a couple of days. I want until she graduates from school.”  
  
The ever creasing line on his forehead and brows that sank deep over gray eyes showed me how much more confused he was. “How’s that fair for me and mine?” Despite his words and frown, the smirk at his lips told me that he may have been insulted, but he was impressed by my daring.  
  
What he couldn’t see was that it wasn’t daring at all. I'd thought this through for weeks before trying to find him and ask. “It’s more than fair,” I started to explain, but then decided on a better approach. “You plan on teaching your father and brothers how to use a bow after you learn?”  
  
He nodded at that, the twinkle of realization dawned in his eyes.  
  
“And you plan on teaching your children who’ll then teach their children?”  
  
His nod was slower as the full trade became clearer. To learn a hunting skill is an extremely valuable commodity. Priceless, even. Ten years of walking a girl to and from school was nothing compared to another, more efficient way of feeding your entire family and their families.  
  
"Four bows and teach me how to make the arrows," he countered. This time the corner of my lips edged upward at his daring.  
  
"Two bows and you teach me snares in exchange for arrow making."  
  
He wiped his hand of the rabbit blood on his hunting pants before holding it out to me. "Deal."    
  
Gale Hawthorne graduated two years ago. He’s now working in the mines, but his little brothers and baby sister who's somewhere out there with Vick, definitely school age by now, continue to keep his side of the bargain and walk with her. They don’t have much to say to Prim because she has the merchant look. It’s their loss, but at least I can hunt during the day with some peace of mind.

* * *

The sun is in the west by the time I leave the woods and head for the Hob. It's earlier than when I usually stop hunting, but if I'm to be back home in time for when Peeta comes, I have to make my trades early.  
  
I have a few squirrels that go directly to Sae. I haven't been to the bakery since my confrontation with Peeta in town and don't plan to go there anytime soon. I’m not ready to face Peeta’s father, his mother, or his brothers yet.  
  
Along with the squirrels, Sae also takes the opossum off of my hands. " How's your...sister?" she asks me as our haggling ends with three squirrels, two opossum, and a chipmunk for a handful of coins.  
  
Sister. Not sisters. News travels fast in this district. The woman gives me a sympathetic smile, and I get the feeling her question was to let me know that she knows, that everyone in the Hob knows. For the first time, I look around and catch the glances my way. It's not obvious by any means, but once I notice them it's hard not to see the way eyes dart away from me followed by hushed conversations.  
  
"My _sisters_ are fine," I answer, emphasizing the word because I'm not ready to discuss the truth here. I may have to at home, but not here. Not right now.  
  
What's left in my forage bag is a pouch of strawberries that I debate whether or not to take to Madge. I haven't seen her since that evening, and I'm more than a little nervous to see her. I stand near the entrance to the Hob deciding for several minutes on what to do until I reach the eventual conclusion. She's my only friend, certainly the only friend who's stuck by me even after I had to quit school.  
  
I may be able to avoid this conversation with those people in the Hob, but I can't with her. She deserves that much, at least.  
  
I trudge up to the door of the mayor's home like it's some sort of death march, and knock. The mayor's the one to answer, and a smile spreads across his face. If he knows about Peeta and Flower, his relaxed, friendly demeanor doesn't show it.  
  
"Ah, Katniss. Madge was hoping you'd come around."  
  
Working beyond my nerves, I try to give him a smile at that, but the muscles in my face are too tense. As luck would have it, he doesn't wait for my response, having already turned into the house, calling for Madge. "I'll see you later, Katniss," is the last thing the mayor says before he disappears into his office.  
  
At the top of the stairs, Madge calls out, "Yes, daddy?" but then stops midway through at the sight of me. I wait for it to come: the questions, the anger after this initial shock and wide-eyed stare. "I'd wondered when you'd show up. I was trying to give you your space," she says as she takes the steps slowly.  
  
"I thought you'd be angry I didn't tell you."  
  
Madge rolls her eyes at that, taking the last step on the staircase. "It was your business."  
  
"You must have questions."  
  
"Only if you want to give answers." She gives me a tentative smile. "I just miss my friend."  
  
The smile I give her in return is true. All of the muscles in my face and body have relaxed as I realize the onslaught of questions isn't coming. So I hand her the strawberries and she offers me a seat on the plush, yet slightly worn sofa.  
  
There's a long, drawn out silence as I try to think of what to say. Madge, to her credit, says nothing, waiting for me to set the direction of our conversation. The temptation to take the coward's way out is there. We could talk about the weather, or what the very last month of school is like, but a sudden bout of courage courses through me, causing me to blurt out, "She's my daughter!"  
  
"Yeah," Madge responds with her brows raised and fights back a smile. "I figured that out when you snatched Flower and ran with Peeta Mellark chasing you down the road."  
  
She shakes her head and bites back the smile she's been fighting until it finally wins out in the end. "Don't know why I didn't see it before. She looks just like him."  
  
"People only see what they allow themselves to see," I explain, because if anyone knows about that, it's me.


	6. Knowing Someone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here's the chapter many of you have been waiting for. As I warned before, this is not the fluffy Daddy!Peeta moment I think a lot of you were expecting/hoping for. This story is not meant to be fluffy, although it will have some fluffy moments scattered here and there. Consider yourselves warned.

It’s a little after six in the evening when Peeta stands at our door as filthy as he was the day before.  
  
"Hello, Katniss," he greets me, and his tone lacks any of the warmth I know he's capable of. My mother comes from the kitchen area, wiping her hands on her apron as Peeta passes me to offer something bundled in burlap that he's been holding in the crook of his arm. "From my father," Peeta says quickly, withdrawing his coal dusted hands from whatever it is he gave my mother. There’s a flush of embarrassment all over his face by the blackened marks and handprint left on the rough material.  
  
He doesn't understand that we're Seam. Coal dust may be everywhere in our district, but miners and their families live with it the most. Even with my father out of the mines all of these years, we still remember. There's no forgetting how it seeps into the skin, how the layers slough off everywhere they go. And even if we were to somehow forget, we still have everyone else in the Seam to remind us.  
  
"Oh, Peeta, we can’t accept this," my mother says, holding out two loaves of freshly baked bread for him to take back.  
  
"My father thought you'd say that. He told me to say it's for his first grandchild, to give him that, _at least_."  
  
My mother looks as though she's about to say something before her lips clamp tightly together. She turns to my father and they share a look between them before my mother rewraps the bread in the burlap. "We'll have it with dinner. Tell him thank you for us."  
  
"I will," he agrees with a nod.  
  
"Dinner will be ready in a few minutes," she tells him. "Katniss, why don't you take Peeta to the pump to wash his face and hands."  
  
"I couldn't stay for dinner, Mrs. Everdeen. I—"  
  
The way her free hand slides to her hip and her lips purse, I know this look so well. "And what do you plan to have for dinner? Bread?" She shoves the loaves at him for emphasis.

Peeta, however, may not be familiar with it, but he knows as well as I do that the argument was over before it began. The way his head lowers is a sure sign of that. Without a word I turn and start for the door. The loud, thumping sounds of his feet tells me he's right behind me, out the door, down the steps, and several paces away from the house to where the pump sticks out of a patch of weeds surrounded by a yard of bare dirt.  
  
I lift and push down on the lever a few times before water comes rushing out of the spigot and into the bucket that sits underneath it. Any hesitation he may have had about cleaning himself up and staying is gone as he eagerly sticks his hands in the next rush of water. I hand him the bar of soap that we leave for the other houses that share this pump. They still have miners and most can't afford the luxury of an extra bar of soap laying about. With the fat of the animals I bring in and my mother's know-how, we have plenty to share.  
  
As I pump the lever for more water, Peeta scrubs the first few layers of coal dust and grime away, and I can't help but stare at the way his hands rub at the back of his neck, or the way he works at his jaw and ears. The rest of his face is next, causing his coal-blackened hair to flop over his forehead and eyes in wet tendrils. With the layers of coal dust, and in the right light his bright, blue eyes could seem gray, Peeta could be mistaken for a Seam man easily.  
  
"Katniss?"  
  
I jump from the lever, startled.  
  
"Are you okay?" he asks me. Some concern hidden in his confused expression. I nod because I can't think of anything else to do. I'm not really sure if I am okay. My mind wandered, and I'm not sure where it went.

"I just wanted to know if this is good enough? I feel like I should bathe because washing up isn't doing much," he says as he picks at his fingernails.  
  
"You'll get used to eating this way. You'll have to, or you'll never get to eat a decent meal," I tell him, still trying to figure out where my mind had gone a minute ago.  
  
We walk back towards the house without a word. Out of the corner of my eye I watch him continue to pick at his nails. Of all places on the body, coal dust settles in deepest there and nothing will get it out other than a good soaking.  
  
It's not until he speaks to me that I realize his nails aren't the only things on his mind. "She doesn't know me."  
  
There's so much packed in those four words, but what I can identify the easiest is fear. I want to ease his mind and tell him everything will work out in the end. I wish I could tell him something like that but how would I know? I have my own fears when it comes to assuming the role of parent rather than sister. I wish I could say the words that would make him feel better, make me feel better, but there's some part of me that feels like it would be a lie.  
  
Instead, I take the conversation elsewhere. “You know, when I told you that you’re not Seam, I didn’t mean for you to work in the mines and get yourself kicked out of the bakery.”  
  
“You expected me to go away.” There's no hiding the bitterness in his voice, in his words. “You expected me to ignore that I have a daughter with the only woman I’ve ever loved.”  
  
His words only pick at my rapidly fraying nerves, and I can't help laugh at the absurdity of it all...at him. “Love, huh? You merchant boys _love_ to use that word. So tell me, how can you love me when you don’t even know me?”  
  
He suddenly stops in the middle of the yard, and I’m not sure why, but I stop with him. The look in his eyes is serious and demands that I take what he has to say as seriously. “I know that you used to wear your hair in two braids instead of the one you wear now," he says, taking the braid that rests over my left shoulder between his fingers reverently before allowing it to fall back in its place.  
  
"You wore a plaid dress the first day of school," he adds, lowering his hand down to his mid-shin. The movement with the words shake a memory lose, the details forgotten long ago. It was a brand new dress for my very first day of school and my mother made sure that it was a few sizes too big so that I had plenty of room to grow into it. The hem was supposed to come to my knees but it was so big that it came down to my mid-shin. How could he remember those small details?  
  
To make it worse, he's not finished. "I know you sing and the birds fall silent,” he says but then drops his voice down to barely above a whisper. “I know that you are amazing with a bow. And I know you have and will always sacrifice everything for your family. That includes our daughter.” There's something more he wants to say, but mercifully, he stops himself. My jaw already hangs there as I try to absorb everything he’s said. I don't need more to try and process.  
  
It's now that he decides to continue to the house, and I follow behind him mutely, too preoccupied with the questions buzzing in my head. One of those question tumbles out of my mouth. Not that I meant to ask it; it just happened to be one of the many that my addled brain allowed my mouth to voice. “When have you ever heard me sing?”  
  
“The first day of school," he answers, not bothering to slow his pace, "when the teacher asked who knew the valley song and your hand shot up.”  
  
“How do you remember all of this about me?”  
  
“It was the day I knew I was a goner. I remember everything about you, Katniss. It’s you who wasn’t paying attention,” he says before taking the steps and entering the house. I'm at a loss for words, pathetically staring at the back of him completely stunned. As though I needed more on my plate, Prim hands Flower to me as soon as I plant one foot past the threshold of the door.  
  
"Mama wants you and Peeta to feed Flower her dinner tonight." Her eyes shift to the end of the rectangular table where one chair has a stack of books flanked by two empty chairs. The rest of the chairs are at the other end of the table for my parents and Prim.  
  
I look to my father for help but there is none in his eyes. For all I know, this could be his idea.  
  
The last person I turn to is Peeta, who looks just as lost as I feel. Perhaps even more. At least I have the advantage of having fed Flower before whereas I don't think he's ever had any experience feeding children.  
   
To make matters worse, Flower fidgets in my arms which means she's hungry, tired, and irritable. I try to walk with her to the chair with the stacked books but she doesn't want to cooperate.  
  
"Can I try?" Peeta asks me, holding out his arms for her. _What could it hurt?_ , I think to myself.

As soon as Flower's settled in his arms, her face scrunches until she starts to howl, "No!" extending the sound as she alternates between pushing away from him and twisting her body so that she faces us with her outstretched fists opening and closing for someone else to take her.  
  
Prim’s body is tense and for a moment, she moves towards us until my father reaches for her wrist with his good hand. Flower’s now screeching, loud and high-pitched, making my ears hurt, so I'm the one to take Flower from him to make her stop. Before I do, I catch something flit across Peeta’s face. It’s only there for a second before he manages to smooth it out into something neutral, but I did see it. The same expression he’d had when I left him that night, reminding him that one night in the meadow wasn’t real, that it couldn’t be real. It’s the same expression he’d had when I left him that evening, reminding him that Flower is Seam and he isn’t…wasn’t.  
  
When I handed him Flower and thought, _What could it hurt_? I didn’t realize that it could hurt him. And for the first time, I start to see the pattern. He's always the one to get hurt.  
  
His words start to repeat in my head over and over: “She doesn't know me.” She doesn't know him because of me, and a guilt settles deep in my bones. I don't like this feeling at all.  
  
Even though I try to push his words out of my head, they echo in my mind again when Flower refuses to take any food Peeta offers her. Even though defeat is written on his face and in the way his shoulders slump, he doesn't give up offering her food with wide smiles, but I can see that they aren't real. Those kinds of smiles from him are the worst because I know that the real ones from him are glorious. I know that when he smiles, when he really smiles, there is a light there that shines bright, and it's not there right now. But he tries until we both manage to get her to eat every last morsel.  
  
His food is barely touched by the time she and the rest of the table are finished, but even so, he thanks my parents and starts to leave. I'm cleaning Flower's face when he comes close for a goodbye. Flower is fidgety again, and I can't get her clean with so much movement.  
  
Peeta doesn't say anything, only stares wistfully at his daughter, but I feel I should, that I need to say something. All that's left to say between us is the one conversation we were supposed to have this evening and didn't. "When do you want to see her again?" I half expect him to give a noncommittal answer, to have given up this farce of working in the mines and playing father to a Seam child.

"Bring her to my house Friday evening," he says after a long pause and there in his eyes, in his face, expecting him to give up was a silly notion. He's never going to give this up. "Can you do that?"

It's not something I would've suggested. The ideal situation for me would have been if he were to come by for his visits when I’m out trading and my parents and sister are here to handle it, but at least at his house, we won't have my family's eyes on us at every moment ready to meddle. So I nod in agreement.  
  
He nods in return and heads for the door after muttering goodbyes to everyone. No one can blame him for being so sullen. His first full evening with his daughter didn't go well at all.  
  
Flower squirms on the stack of books until I relent and set her on the floor half cleaned. My patience is worn through.  
  
I don't think any of us expect her to toddle over to the door quickly, including Peeta. She looks up at him and holds out her hands, opening and closing them while saying the word, "Up." It's the way she tells us that she wants someone to pick her up and in this case, after all of the fuss made before and during dinner, she wants Peeta. He doesn't hesitate to oblige her wishes and lifts her into his arms.  
  
I'm sure he wants to hold her tightly, but he doesn't, too afraid that she'll change her mind.  
  
She opens and closes one hand to him and says, "Bye-bye," before plunging a couple of her fingers into her smiling mouth.  
  
"Bye-bye, Flower," he says to her before returning her to the floor and stepping out the door, and I catch the smile on his face, bright with renewed hope. I stand at the door with Flower and suggest to him quickly, before he's gone too far to hear me, "Maybe she just needs time and for things to be on her terms."  
  
"Makes sense," he says with one of his winning smiles to me and Flower, one of his real smiles, "but then, I have experience with that." I watch him turn and walk down the road, feeling as though he meant something more, but if he did, I have no idea what it was.


	7. For The Long Haul

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It happened again. Almost 5000 words that had to be split. It puts this chapter at around 2000. The other half is near 3000, but it may have to be split yet again because there are some things that have to be inserted. I begin a story with a set number of chapters according to my outline and look what happens. *sigh*
> 
> This doesn't move the story along much, but it does expand on the world and circumstances the Everdeens are dealing with.

As soon as Peeta's too far down the road to be seen any longer and I close the front door, Prim scoops Flower into her arms and coos, "No nap today, so we'd better get you to bed."  
  
I’m speechless as I watch Prim walk away from me, and it’s not until she’s halfway to our room that I find my voice.  
  
"You didn't give her a nap?" This stops Prim in her tracks, and she turns to face me with Flower still in her arms. My eyes narrow at each person over the age of one. No wonder she was so cranky, and I feel the hairs along the back of my neck prickle as they rise. What Peeta went through might have been avoided, or at the very least could have been less painful, if she were well rested.  
  
"Why didn't you give her a nap?" I snap at Prim. "Did you see how hurt he was?" Flower's sleep schedule hasn't changed since Prim and my mother managed to get her on one. Of all of the times they could've deviated from that schedule, why would this be the day?  
  
My sister takes a step back and there's guilt written all over he face. There should be if she had a hand in this, but what forces me to rein in my anger, just a little, is the fear I see there as well.  
  
The answer comes from the deeper voice at the other end of the table. My father sounds as strong and unwavering as he did before the mines left him without the use of his left arm and leg. "Don't blame your sister, Katniss. Your mother and I thought it was the best course."  
  
"Why would you do that?" I slam my hands flat on the table, focusing all of my anger into the contact and leaning forward with my weight on them. Prim jumps at the sound, and Flower buries her face in Prim's neck and starts to whimper, but my father doesn't flinch one bit. Instead, his eyes slide to Prim. "Take Flower to bed," he tells my sister before his eyes shift back to me quickly where they stay on me and nothing else. That's okay. I have no intention of looking elsewhere either. We stay this way until there's the soft click of the bedroom door with Prim and Flower behind it.  
  
"We had to make sure," my mother offers, and I round on her.  
  
"What could you possibly make sure of?'' I almost don’t recognize my own voice. It’s hissing and growling like some wild animal, and I can feel the muscles of my face tighten into a sneer.  
  
"We don't know Peeta," my father answers, and I turn back to face him. "Honestly, Katniss, you don't know him either."  
  
"And?" If I weren't still furious, I would be able to see what they were trying to do. But I am, fuming with what had happened during dinner and knowing that it was purposefully done. They meant to have Peeta’s first full evening with is daughter go horribly wrong, and I want them to explain why.  
  
"I don't think we have to tell you how odd all of this is," my mother says calmly as she moves to stand near my father. I track her movement not unlike how I would track the movements of those predatory animals I find out in the woods, the ones that threaten me for my kill. I feel threatened because I feel betrayed, even if it’s for Peeta’s sake. And it doesn't help that they stand together in front of me, creating a united front to counter my anger.  
  
"We had to know,” my mother explains. “It's easy to want to father a sweet, well behaved child, but we had to see if he could handle the not so sweet side of Flower as well as how the two of you will handle the responsibility together." Any other time, I might have found their explanation reasonable, rational. The problem is that I'm not reasonable or rational at the moment.  
  
Their meddling this evening went far deeper than I could've imagined, and that's what really chafes. "And what did your little test tell you?" The sound of my voice is biting and disrespectful which gives me some control over my anger again because it reminds me of last night and the things I said to my father that I wished I could take back.  
  
I push back from the table now that I’m very aware of my combative behavior, with Prim and Flower and my parents. My head is clearing and their words are starting to sink in just as they answer my last question, "You'll both make good parents." If I weren’t so preoccupied with my own thoughts, I might have caught the way they glanced at each other with something unspoken, yet very clear, between them.  
  
My father struggles to lift himself from his chair with my mother’s help and they both head to their room. It’s their way of telling me that the conversation is over. I can’t say I disagree. I need time to calm down fully and process all of what happened tonight. Before they disappear behind their bedroom door, my mother turns back to me. "We just want what's best for Flower, Katniss."  
  
There door closes, leaving me feeling raw from the anger and resentment that had built over the course of the conversation, but weary now that it’s no longer burning hot. I slump into the chair closest to me and go over everything that had happened tonight. Even though Peeta proved to me tonight that he knows me way more than I know him, there’s no getting around the fact that my parents are right. I don’t know Peeta.  
  
And then there’s a voice in my head that sounds a little too much like my father for my comfort, reminding me of how Peeta really hasn’t given up anything, permanently that is. What's to stop him from deciding that being a miner and the father of a Seam girl isn't worth losing the support of his entire family and the comforts of being a merchant. Nothing.  
  
It's not the same with men as it is for women from town, like my mother. For a woman from a good merchant family, being with a Seam man is disgraceful, and to bear a Seam child would be tangible proof of her shame. Even if she were to leave her children in the Seam and return to forgiving parents, there would be no merchant man willing to marry the tainted woman.  
  
All of this and more is what my mother faced when she fell in love with my father. She shamelessly fled to the Seam leaving behind any support from family or friends, as good as dead in their eyes. Not to mention enduring the mistrust of those in the Seam. It took years of genuine willingness to help for some in the Seam to warm up to her, but even so, and just like Prim, I don't think my mother has anyone she can really call a friend.  
  
As a man, Peeta wouldn't have this problem. His family and everyone else from town would welcome him back with open arms if he wanted to return home. Sure, they would give him a hard time for his lapse in judgment, but they'd quickly find him a good merchant girl to make all of this nothing but a memory that would provide a good chuckle in private company.  
  
I don’t think Peeta would do that, but my parents are right. I don’t know him well enough to say for certain. It's not much different from when Prim asked me if he would take Flower from us. The truth is that I don't know.  
  
Calmer now, I can see the situation for what it is. My parents wanted to know what kind of father he would be. They wanted to know if he was in this for the long haul, and I can't blame them, now. What would happen if Flower grows comfortable with having him around, even one day she may call him daddy, and then he suddenly decides it's too much trouble, too much lost?  
  
I understand why they did it, even though I'm not quite there in accepting how they did it. It was an ambush, plain and simple which still irritates me, but something my father said changes the direction of my thoughts. It was such a simple statement, but I can't help how it repeats over and again in my mind. " _You'll both make good parents._ "  
  
_Both_. It wasn't just Peeta's test. It was mine as well.

* * *

Trying not to disturb the wood slats underneath the mattress and avoid as many creaks as I can, I slip onto the bed beside Flower who's curled along Prim's ribs. Her small head of blonde curls rests on top of Prim's arm.  
  
When I'm finally settled in, I expect to hear the soft sounds of their breaths, but all I hear is Flower's.  
  
"Prim? "I whisper into the room that's barely lit by moonlight and half expect to go unanswered.  
  
"What is it, Katniss?" There’s an edge to her voice, similar to mine when I’m angry, and I'm not used to this tone from Prim.  
  
It's short and cold and about as far from Prim-like as anyone can get, so it's especially bizarre coming from her. It's so strange to hear that my mind blanks for a moment to reconcile the tone and the speaker. There's no doubt now that my behavior earlier managed to strain what I thought was the infinite patience of my sister. I scared her and I scared Flower, and there's only one thing to do about that. "I'm sorry about earlier, Prim. I really am."  
  
There’s a silence followed by an exasperated huff from her. "Why didn't you tell me?"  
  
It's not the response I expected, to say the least. There's only one thing I've kept from her, the very large secret she had to find out in the street in the middle of town. It’s just confusing why she’s angry about that now and not last night or a week before when it happened. Still, I offer the only thing I have to give.  
  
"I'm sorry you had to find out about Peeta that way, Prim," I apologize because I really am sorry about that, about everything. If there was anyone in this world I should have told, it was Prim. Honestly, it should've been Peeta the moment I decided to have Flower, but that's a whole other set of regrets to push to the back of my mind for another time.  
  
My only defense, as flimsy as it is, was that I wanted to embrace the lie completely, the comfortable place I could hide from the truth. Telling Peeta, telling Prim about Peeta was only going to shatter that comfortable place I could retreat to. I'm not sure how I can explain this to Prim when I can barely explain it the myself, but I don't have the chance.  
  
"Even now you don't want to tell me?"  
  
I wish I could. I wish I had the right words to make her understand why I wanted to keep Peeta from this. There's a slight shift and soft creaks that come from her side of the bed as Prim turns on her side. Flower shifts, her face scrunches right before it smooths out into peaceful sleep again.  
  
Even in the dim light I can feel Prim's eyes on me, trying to figure something out. I guess she does because she flops back on the bed with a tired, "Goodnight, Katniss." This time her words lack the chill that was there before. It sounds like Prim again.  
  
Peeta is the only secret I’ve kept from her, but somehow I feel as though that’s not what she wants from me. There's no way of knowing what my sister was looking for, what confession she expected of me, but she seemed to have found some answer that was good enough for her. And I'm not going to push the issue further, so I give her a "goodnight" as well.


	8. What's a Good Ice-breaker?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to take the time to thank everyone who has read, commented, kudo'd and bookmarked the story, but I also want to give a hearty shout-out to those that commented on the last chapter. There were some small details that I was trying to get across and the comments really helped me know that they did come across as intended.
> 
> Now, this part of the note doesn't have anything to do with the story so you can continue on if you want. I just wanted to say that for a while now, my love of writing has been deteriorating, and I was at the point where I really didn't want to write anymore. I've been struggling to finish what's here, with no intention of writing anything new. New story ideas I usually jot down, I haven't in quite some time. And then, I had a moment where I had to impart a bit of wisdom to my daughter that I realized just as I was saying the words to her that they applied to me and writing as well. It's one of those moments when you can tell yourself something repeatedly, but once you see it in someone else, it finally clicks. With that, I have renewed excitement. Let's hope that it and my muse continue. ;)

Strawberry season's in full swing, and I have two large pouches to show for it. One of them is for Prim and Flower, but the other I've saved for Madge. My family could definitely use the coin.  
  
I turn the corner and start down the road that leads directly to her house but stop short at the sight of her standing in the threshold of her door with the grocers' grandson. He holds her hand and whispers in her ear. She leans into him, but her body is stiff and her eyes are on everything but him as though searching for any opportunity to bolt.  
  
There's no telling whether he's aware of this or even cares the way he continues to invade her personal space. At one point, he tries to kiss her on the cheek, but Madge moves away from him just out of reach. His consolation is a shy smile and a pat on his hand that holds hers.  
  
She whispers something to him; he whispers something back, and I decide that Madge can go without strawberries today. There's obviously some level of intimacy in whatever is going on, and it's none of my business. Besides, as covered in ripening strawberries as those shrubs in the woods have been, there'll be plenty more to give her tomorrow. So it's off to my next stop: the peacekeepers' barracks.

I have two ducks which is more than ample payment for the head peacekeeper.  
  
The five long buildings lined up in rows happens to be an easy walk from the mayor's house. Several peacekeepers sit outside, and I can't tell if they're off-duty. They're always in uniform, and even if they weren't, it wouldn't matter what they wore when there's always a fear of them, of what they could do.  
  
A few, fresh-faced and clearly new to this district, give me a wary eye as I carry my forage bag to the center building where I'll undoubtedly find Cray. They're not used to the way things are done, the way Cray runs this district, but they'll learn. It's been this way from the time before I was born and nothing's changed since.  
  
I'm sure I'll find a few of the male peacekeepers, a little dirtied by the coal dust, with a girl from the district on their arm in no time. I hear they promise marriage and a move to the Capitol, and in that the girl imagines a life without the specter of the games looming over her life or the lives of her children. And when the girl turns up pregnant and looking for the fulfillment of those promises, he's on the next train out, replaced by yet another fresh-faced peacekeeper. The girl usually turns up at our door crying for my mother's help.  
  
And then there are the female peacekeepers who tear through the males of our district. I've heard the lewd jokes in the Hob that for boys in District Twelve, female peacekeepers and puberty go hand in hand.  
  
This is what Cray allows. Some say he encourages this which is why he has no problem with shipping peacekeepers out in the dead of night. Something about morale and letting off a little steam. Never mind the havoc and heartbreak they leave behind.  
  
Still, if Cray weren't the way he is, I wouldn't have this agreement I have with him; I wouldn't be able to hunt full time and keep my family alive.  
  
Inside the center building is one long hallway with offices on both sides all the way down. Cray's office is at the end, and I start down the hallway only to be stopped by one of those fresh-faced peacekeepers. His light brown eyes are hard on me as he holds his weapon across his chest and blocks my way with his body.  
  
"I think you have us confused with the Justice Building," he says to me with his nose wrinkling and eyes narrowing.  
  
"Leave her alone, Marcus," a familiar voice calls out. I see red hair behind the peacekeeper in my way and exhale with relief. "She has business with Cray."  
  
The young peacekeeper eyes me from my toes to the top of my head, slowly, and worst of all lingering in places that make me pull my forage bag in front of my body.  It would seem this young peacekeeper isn't as new to Cray's ways as I thought.  
  
I know this red haired peacekeeper. I've seen him around in the Hob and many times here. Darius. He nods his head for me to follow him. We're both aware that I know my way to Cray's office, but I don't question the escort.    
  
At the office down the hall, the head peacekeeper is behind his desk reading the screen of his computer before he looks up at me. " Ah, Katniss, you're early this week."  
  
"Two ducks," I pull the carcasses from the bag. "You said you had a taste for them."  
  
Cray tilts his head in my direction with his eyes to Darius, and the redhead takes the two birds from me. With the transaction complete, there's no reason for me to stay a minute longer. As I make my way out of his office, I hear him lament to his subordinate how he's going to miss this arrangement when it ends.  
  
For me, the end of this arrangement with Cray comes with mixed feelings. On the one hand, I've been beholden to this man for five years. Five years of bringing him my choicest kills weekly in exchange for his help every year.  
  
At thirteen years old, it was so hard to feed a family of four and maintain my grades. There Cray was, at our doorstep to alert my parents of how I was failing my classes. By law, showing up to school and passing classes are the responsibility of parents. Teachers create a roster of children who will unlikely pass for the year which lands on the desk of the head peacekeeper.  
  
He was almost giddy that day at our house, knowing full well that our only official options were for my parents to be whipped in the town square or for me to be evaluated by a Capitol doctor and deemed unfit to attend school. Cray knew that my father would have to negotiate and come to the table in the weaker position. There was no surprise Cray got the best outcome he could've hoped for. Choicest meat every week in exchange for having his doctor-friend sign me out of school.  
  
Now eighteen years old, I could discharge myself from school, but I would need proof of a job. In this district my only option is the mines, and I'd have less time to hunt than in school.  
  
So when school ends, so does my weekly payment to Cray.  
  
On the other hand, I don't look forward to the end of school because what follows is the reaping, something I'd rather not think about at the moment.

* * *

Friday comes a little too quickly. I return from the woods with my forage bag full and my mother waiting for me at the door. There's no time to tell her what's in it, how well hunting had gone before she snatches it from me.  
  
"It's after six," she tells me and glances behind her to where Flower, in her best dress, plays with Prim. The little curls that are usually wild are brushed tamed.  
  
"I need to change clothes," I tell her as I walk into the house but she blocks my way.  
  
"Peeta came here straight from work. You can give him a similar courtesy."  
  
From behind my mother, I can see Prim ushering Flower to the door.  
  
"Bye-bye!" she squeals excitedly as she toddles then latches to my leg. Her face is all smiles as she looks up at me. Even if I'd found my voice, whatever argument I could've made would have been to the front door, because it's closed, leaving me and Flower standing in front of our house.  
  
For her, this is an adventure. Adventure doesn't quite describe what this is for me.  
  
With no other option, I take her hand and we begin our walk down the road that ends in town. But we're not going into town. We're going to the houses closest to the mines. The one room shacks that are reserved for single adults in our District. One of them will belong to Peeta.  
  
Not far down the road, Flower pulls at my arm and starts to whimper. Her fussing doesn't come as a surprise, but that she's walked this far does. For her little legs, that's a distance.  
  
I carry her the rest of the way. She isn't as cumbersome as I expect, in fact, she's lighter than my forage bag most days and the way her small body curls and practically latches onto me makes her weight even easier.  
  
There are moments when I can't help myself and stare down at her as she looks around. She's so full of curiosity, absorbing the way my feet kick up the dirt of the road, the way Seam women work, washing clothes outside and watching their small children play. Everything, no matter how small, catches her attention as though she's filing the image away mentally. There's so much of Peeta in the way her eyes absorb her surroundings, even the way they study me from time to time.  
  
We come to the fork in the road by the time the sun hides behind the treeline far beyond the district's boundaries. The eastern road would take us into town, but it's the southbound road we need to travel down, the road that will take us to the edge of the Seam nearest the mines.  
  
It's not far from the fork in the road that I see the first one room house. I've never been to the is part of the Seam, and the first thing I notice is how the houses are arranged differently than the others I'm used to. They're not scattered here and there in clusters but are arranged in rows much like the peacekeepers' barracks with some space between each.  
  
I used to think the houses in the Seam were small. Compared to the stores and shops in town with their living spaces built in back or on top of them, they are. But these houses are even smaller, and the coal dust from the nearby mines have settled deep in the cracks and grooves of the wood, painting them a drab light and dark gray.  
  
Not one of the houses has been cared for in the last decade, with wood splintering from the chips they call shingles and cracked slab foundations.  
  
In the center of the road between two rows of houses are several people standing and sitting around a cook fire with pots strung up over it. I can only guess this is how unmarried adults without any family manage to make their meals: by pooling their resources and time. They survive together.  
  
There's not much conversation among them, and I think of the people who usually end up here: the children from the community home that turned eighteen. They were children who had nothing, no one, that became adults who had nothing and no one. I imagine what my life might have been like if my father had died in the mines that day, and if something had happened to my mother after that. If life has taught me anything is that life is a fragile thing.  
  
Those outside sit, they stand, they crouch together with downcast eyes and slumped shoulders as proof that this is still a hard kind of survival.  
  
I don't want this life for Peeta. I convince myself as I continue to carry Flower past those people that this isn't his life. He has Flower, and he has me. Except that thought leads to a bigger question: Who am I to him?  
  
"You, there!" a man in his early twenties sitting by the cook fire calls out to me and Flower. "Looking for someone?" There's a woman sitting beside him about the same age that snorts at that. "You know full well who she's looking for, Eph."  
  
The man shrugs as though he's not interested either way, but the eyes of all the others around him snap up to focus on me and Flower.  "Down that row," the woman says and points, "the sixth house down."  
  
My first thought is that they've mistaken me for someone else, but deep down I know better. If word about me, Peeta, and Flower has reached the Hob, there's no doubt it's reached this little corner of the Seam. Especially since most of these people are regular customers of Sae. I recognize some of the faces.  
  
I don't want my life to be everyone's business. I don't want my life to be the fuel for gossip in this district which is why I resent each of their knowing stares. That selfish wish that everything could go back to the way it was before rears itself again as I follow their direction.  
  
After passing the rows of houses, I'm thankful for their nosy help. Aside from knocking on every door, I would never have been able to find his house, that is, until I smell something so wonderful that it could only be from the skilled hands of a baker. It's in the air by the fourth house and becomes stronger as Flower and I get closer to the sixth house.  
  
The door swings open before I can lift my free hand to knock, and the scent of warm cheese and fresh bread blasts us immediately, leaving my mouth watering. Flower looks up at me and says one word: "Eat?"  
  
I'm suddenly aware of how I brought nothing to eat for either of us and look helplessly at Peeta. Is he in for another miserable night with Flower?  
  
"Yes! We're going to eat," he says to Flower, a quick and gentle brush of his finger to her chin before he stands to the side of the door and gestures for us to enter. "I didn't expect you for another hour or two," he moves away nervously, picking up what looks like his mining clothes and a towel and then throwing them in an out-of-the-way corner," but the cheese buns should be warm enough to eat."  
  
"Cheese buns?" I ask, not sure what he's talking about but salivating at the aroma all the same.  
  
He motions towards a covered tray near the coal burning stove. I know I shouldn't stare at the tray, still covered and smelling wonderful, but my mind is with my nose. Peeta finishes tidying the house before taking the tray and moving it to the small round table with two chairs. All three pieces of furniture take up a third of the house, but I barely notice, seating myself at the table with Flower on my lap. Our eyes are on the tray as Peeta peels back the cloth covering it. Flower squirms out of my grasp and stands in the space between me and Peeta who sits on the other chair. Peeta hands me a pastry, and then tears another into pieces before offering one of them to Flower.  
  
She doesn't accept the piece and I fear we're going to have a repeat of the other night. In my frustration, I take a bite of the warm pastry, and in that rush of warmth, I forget Peeta, Flower, the small house, and everything else for that matter. My entire being centers around the flaky outside of the pastry that contrasts with the smooth, almost doughy inside dotted with chunks of cheese. There's a crumb caught on my lip and I use my tongue to search for it, bring it back to where it belongs: in my mouth. Each bite is an experience which is why I don't come back to my senses until the the last bite is gone, only to find Flower shoving the entire piece Peeta was trying to give her into her mouth.    
  
"It worked," he says as he wipes his hands on the towel he used to carry the tray to the table. "You convinced her." He gives a soft chuckle which causes a rush of embarrassment for my reaction.  
  
"Convinced her?" I ask, having no idea what he's talking about.  
  
"Yeah, it was convincing. Even I believed it," he says, then adds when he notices the confusion on my face "that you love cheese buns."  
  
I glance over at the tray and eye a particularly cheesy bun. "I think I do," I tell him as I reach for it against my will. The only thing to stop me, leaving my hand hovering over my target pastry, is years of conditioning. I'm a guest. Most people in our district can't feed their own family, much less guests. Guests don't eat their host's food. Even more, how often can Peeta have a decent meal readily available? I'm sure these pastries could feed him well for days.  
  
"I'm sorry I didn't bring anything for me and Flower to eat." The guilt settles in my stomach, making the cheese bun inside restless. "We shouldn't eat your food."  
  
Peeta gives me a curious look before a very insistent toddler distracts him. She's at his leg, tugging on his pants for more. If ever there was an instant ice-breaker, I suppose cheese buns would be it.  
  
"Don't be," he says, handing me the cheese bun I'd been eyeing. "I made these for the both of you."  
  
Without a second more I smile and take it and bite into it. "When did you have the time to make these?" I somehow manage to ask through a face full of pastry.  
  
"I spent a good part of last night at the bakery making them. My father let me use one of the ovens." He shrugs as though it's nothing, turning his attention to Flower as she hums a song while chewing the latest piece Peeta's given her. "All I had to do was reheat them after work."  
  
_A good part of last night._  
  
"When did you have time to sleep?" I ask because miners leave the mines at six in the evening. He would've had to walk to the bakery after work, bake these—a pastry that doesn't seem a simple thing to make at all—then walk all the way back to his house and have to be back at the mines at six in the morning.  
  
"I slept..." he counters as he hands Flower another piece. She takes it but doesn't eat it. Instead, she just holds it in her hand and continues to dance to the song she tries to sing, "...enough." Peeta continues to watch Flower sway and squat and shimmy to the song with the piece of cheese bun in her hand.  
  
At that moment, the dark skin under his eyes and the droop of his eyelids stands out to me. He hasn't slept much, and if I'd looked at him, really looked at him, I would have seen it on his face.  
  
"You can't go without sleep like this, Peeta," I tell him and immediately regret it. I sound like my mother when my father tried to do too much after work or his one day off. My mother had every right to speak up whereas I don't have any right whatsoever. It's well within his right to tell me how it's none of my business, how I'm the reason why he's here and not the bakery. He could say that and so much more, but all he does is sag down in his chair, lean forward, rest his elbows on the table, and drop his face in his hands.  
  
Flower finishes the piece she's had and toddles over to Peeta, supporting herself with her hands on his leg. This causes him to look up from his hands and down at her. They both smile at each other, both equally radiant, and he hands her one more piece of the torn bun.  
  
"This is why I'll go without sleep for a week if I have to."  
  
Flower takes the piece from him and shoves part of it in her mouth. She doesn't walk away but leans against Peeta's leg. The way she's so relaxed around him now is a far cry from the way she was when Peeta first tried to feed her.  
  
As soon as she finishes that piece, I decide it's the last and that it's time to clean her oily hands and face. "Flower, come here so I can clean you," I call to her and she comes without hesitation and a big, bright smile. "May I?" I ask, lifting the towel Peeta used to carry the tray, and he nods, resting his head on an arm balanced on the table. He's watching me wipe Flower's mouth; his eyelids drooping and an easy smile stretching at his lips.  
  
"My father's idea, the cheese buns."

I have a hard time getting all of the oil off of Flower's cheeks which is the proof of how much progress was made, how he'd sacrificed sleep and was rewarded with a much more relaxed, friendly toddler.  
  
"My father even offered to bake them for me, but if anyone's going to bake you both something to eat, it'll be me." He's determined, I'll give him that, but there's something in what he'd said that makes it a little bit harder to breathe. I focus even more on cleaning Flower, avoiding looking up so that there's no chance my eyes will meet his.  
  
_If anyone's going to bake_ you both _something to eat..._  
  
Flower continues with her song until I finish with her hands, but once she's free, she turns to Peeta and then back to me. "Sleepytime!" she says, pointing at Peeta.  
  
His arm is flat on the table with his head resting on it. His eyes are closed, lips slightly parted, and his breaths come gentle and deep. I press my forefinger to my lips at Flower, and she mimics me with a smile and soft giggle. Her eyes, Peeta's blue eyes, light up in her amusement.  
  
I look around for something to cover him with, and for the first time I really take notice of the one room house. A third of the room is taken by the table and chairs. Another third by the bed. All of the furniture has the plain, simple design that screams Justice Building issue.  
  
There is a blanket spread across the bed that couldn't be standard issue. It looks like it might have been beautiful once, perfectly crafted and expensive once upon a time, but well loved and well used since. I pull the blanket from the bed and catch the clean scent of baker's yeast and herbs and something else that's different but not unpleasant and not unfamiliar. Before I'm aware that I'm doing it, I pull a corner of the blanket to my nose and inhale. There's a tug at the blanket, and I look down to find Flower copying my action in another, lower corner of the blanket.  
  
We both walk to Peeta, and she helps me cover him with his blanket. As gentle as we try to be, it's not enough to avoid waking him. His head lifts up, and his eyes snap open. "You're leaving?"  
  
I nod, lifting Flower into my arms. "She'll need to sleep soon." What I don't say is that he needs to sleep now, but that's not my place.  
  
He doesn't argue at the mention of her bedtime, choosing to give me a sleepy nod with his eyelids already drooping again.

"How about we meet on Sundays, your days off. When we get used to that, then we can add more days," I suggest, shifting Flower in my arms. His head bobs a bit and I take that as a nod. He tries to lift himself from his chair, but I use my free hand to push down on his shoulder. "You don't have to see us out. We're fine," I tell him as he lowers himself back down to the chair and Flower lowers her head on my shoulder.  
  
"We'll see you on Sunday," I say stepping out of his front door. There's no movement from him, no sound, and I'm not exactly sure he heard me.


	9. Facing the Other Side

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have to let all of you know that there is a small section in the first chapter (the original one-shot) that's been changed. I went through some of my old notes (some of you may have seen me mention notes that were nothing more than scattered bits of info) and there was a version of the last bit of dialog between K & P about Flower that, I think, was better than what I had posted. It's not a huge change, but I like it more and it influenced the name of this story "Seam Girls." Not sure why it never made it to my outline.

Walking home from Peeta's house leaves me with a mixed bag of emotions. It was a good visit, even if cut short, which is something he really needed after the visit earlier this week. He finally had the chance to see the happier, friendlier side of Flower, but something has settled heavy in my gut. Even though I don’t agree with his decision to lose sleep, I can understand that he wanted to make what must be a costly meal for Flower, his daughter, but…  
  
_…if anyone's going to bake_ you both _something to eat, it'll be me._  
  
_…you both…_  
  
He didn't bake those cheese buns for just Flower. There’s a weight on my chest, and I find it hard to breathe in the warm night air.  
  
_…the only woman I’ve ever loved._  
  
My arms tense around the sleeping toddler I’m carrying, and she scrunches her face, adjusting to the change in pressure around her before she eases back into a peaceful state. I wish it could be so easy for me to adjust to the mounting pressure I feel. I can barely control my breathing that’s coming fast and labored. My lungs feel raw. I know he wants to see his daughter, but does he also expect a wife in the deal? I’m not ready to even think about that kind of commitment, about how I feel when it comes to him and me. I can barely wrap my brain around the idea of him and me as parents. I can’t be wife too.  
  
I consider sitting on the side of the road to catch my breath, but I don’t because it’s dark and I’d rather not be outside longer than I have to with a small child. A few houses down from our house, I start to come up with other reasons why Peeta would make me cheese buns. It’s almost a game to see how many I can come up with; a distracting game which is exactly what I need.

Could he have simply wanted to test a new recipe? That sounds feeble even in my head.  
  
He may have just wanted to put me in a good mood as well as Flower so that the visit could be a pleasant as possible. I really like this explanation, and expand on it with the thought that he could have made those cheese buns for anyone. If it were Prim or my mother who brought Flower, it would have been for them too. By the time we’re home, I feel better about it, confident that those pastries weren’t for me at all. They were for Flower and whoever brought her. At the very least, it allows me to sleep at night.

* * *

All day it’s been clear and warm with not a cloud in the sky, and yet as I walk through town it feels as though I’m walking to my own hanging tree. I can already feel the noose tightening around my neck, my lungs fighting for each breath. As Mrs. Mellark sets her eyes on me, I feel it tightening even more. I have no choice but to climb the steps of the bakery, steps I haven't set foot on since the night Peeta chased me through most of town. If only there was somewhere else I could go, but this is the only bakery in the district. No one else has the know-how or the ingredients to make a cake, and that's exactly what I need.  
  
Prim's birthday’s in a little under two weeks. With all that’s happened with Peeta, I’d forgotten completely, and my selfless sister would never remind us. The only thing to remind me was the dream I had last night: my family gathered at the table and my parents looking to me to bring the cake to her. I woke up earlier than usual this morning thanks to the embarrassment and guilt eating away at me.  
  
There has been a cold chill in my spine since I realized I would have to come here. Even in the woods, I spent most of my time thinking about this moment. What to say, what to do. It was all I could think about which was why I had only one pathetic squirrel to show for my efforts hunting today, and the sad part about it was that I think I only caught the critter because it was older, slower.  
  
The moment of truth comes when I reach the last step and open the door. It creaks as it usually does which draws the casual attention of everyone inside. Unfortunately for me, when they realize who just stepped into the Mellark bakery, they don't continue their conversations as they usually do. All lips close shut and there’s a silence that makes the creak of the door closing behind me even louder. The air is so thick with their judgments, and I concentrate on the only Mellark face that doesn’t show a hint of scorn.  
  
“Hello, Mr. Mellark,” I try to sound as confident as I can, but it falls short when my voice cracks. I hear a woman whisper but can only make out two words: shameful and Seam.  
  
“Katniss,” Mr. Mellark either doesn't hear or ignores the murmurs as he greets me, dropping the cleaning rag he’d used to wipe the counter he stands behind, “it’s been a while.” The meaning of his words aren’t lost on me. It has been a while. Thirteen days exactly, the longest I've ever gone without trading at the bakery except during my pregnancy, but I think of Prim, and continue to do what I came here to do.  
  
"I need a birthday cake," I rush the words out. There's some relief that comes with finally getting to the business at hand, but Mr. Mellark's brows shoot up and the look in his eyes tells me that he wants to know something desperately but won’t ask. It occurs to me that I didn't say whose birthday. Does he think it's for Flower? "For Prim!" I correct, and in my haste it’s loud enough to fill the entire room. The people around us had become a little more discreet with only glances in my direction, but my outburst has caused them to focus back on me outright.  
  
Taking a sweep of everyone around us with his eyes, Mr. Mellark inhales deeply before suggesting, "Perhaps we should have this conversation in the back." I nod because that's all I can do. I'm facing my daughter's grandfather for the first time after everything was forced out in the open, and ever single person in the bakery knows it. Gossip does travel fast in this district.  
  
Before we leave, he grabs something from behind the counter and steps through the door that leads to the back. I follow the baker without another word, partly thankful to be away from the judgmental gazes of so many, including Peeta’s mother and brothers.  
  
I've never been inside the back room, only ever seeing it through the back door. I do recognize the old, wooden table, but I've never seen it this close. It's about double the size of our table at home. It's as worn and old as ours, though, but the warm red color keeps it looking beautiful no matter how many nicks and scratches it has.  
  
"Have a seat," he offers me, taking one of the other chairs for himself. There's a war in my mind. I'd rather keep this transaction as quick as possible, but I also owe this man something. It's only now that it's fully sinking in. When I decided not to take my mother’s herbs, my decision to have Flower affected more than me and my family. It affected another family. Peeta's family. It wasn’t only Peeta who lost a year of Flower’s life. I think about how happy Mr. Mellark was when he held Flower, and he didn’t even know at the time that she was his granddaughter.  
  
I do owe him, and I don’t know how to settle the debt, two things I hate most in this world.  
  
Mr. Mellark hasn’t said a word since we sat down. Not that I have either. I’m so lost in my own thoughts that I can barely think of anything to say. I suppose it’s the same for him.  
  
Finally, drumming his fingers on the table a few times and clearing his throat, he speaks first. "Did you and Flower enjoy the cheese buns?"  
  
"Yes. We did." It's all I have for him. I wish I could say more. I wish I knew the best way to explain why I chose to have Flower raised as my sister, but if there are the right words, I can't seem to find them.  
  
There’s a small nick at the side of the table that I pick at with my fingernail as the man opposite me looks around the room. There's something he wants to say, but the way he opens his mouth then closes it with his brows dipping down low in frustration, I think Mr. Mellark has as much trouble finding the right words as I do. With a long exhale he places what he’d taken from the front and has been holding ever since on the table and slides it to me.  
  
It’s a bag. A small bag that they use in the bakery. “Cookies. They're for Flower,” he says, then quickly adds, “and the rest of your family, of course.”  
  
I nod at that.  
  
"If ever..." he starts to say but stops himself and tries again. "If she...Flower...needs anything..." This attempt isn't much better than the last which causes him to blow out air in a huff of frustration.  
  
The corners of my lips pull up on their own as I realize where Peeta got his gentle, forgiving nature from. I've hidden his first grandchild from him, and am the root of why his son lives in the worst part of the Seam as a miner, and here he is, trying to offer help. So I offer him help. "It's okay, Mr. Mellark. I know what you're trying to say."  
  
He gives me a warm smile and it's clear that Peeta inherited that from him as well. So has Flower. As soon as the tension clears the room, it figures Mrs. Mellark bursts in, griping about how she had to close early because of me. How I had to find new ways of destroying their family. Her two sons follow her in, but their expressions are unreadable.  
  
"This isn't the time—" Mr. Mellark says to his wife but she's already moved on to the next round of insults.  
  
“Shameless! Brazen! Oh, this is the time!” the woman speaks over him with her gaze fixed unwaveringly on me. “Couldn’t be happy with your own kind in that filthy gutter you call home. Could ya’? Had to drag one of my sons with you, didn’t ya’?”  
  
I shrink into the chair feeling so small in it. Leave it to Mrs. Mellark to know the right words to make me feel like I’m that eleven year old girl again, rummaging through her garbage for something, anything to eat. There’s an overwhelming need to run away and the burn at my eyes tells me that I may even cry. I fight both with all I have; I wouldn’t give this woman the satisfaction.  
  
“Who knows what you thought you’d get from him,” she grumbles as she folds her arms and rolls her eyes. Her voice has calmed considerably, which only makes me more nervous.  
  
“I suppose I shouldn’t be too upset. Out of all of my sons you could've seduced, you picked the most useless one of them. And here I thought he might be a man and make something of himself. What was I thinking?”  
  
There’s a sudden shift in the air. I’m not sure if it comes from them or from me, but there’s a difference in the way I see each and every face in the room. Who are they to judge Peeta?  
  
Mrs. Mellark has been long known for hitting her sons with little provocation. She’s often found yelling at them and saying things no mother should say to her child. Even now she’s doing it, so who is she to judge Peeta? And Mr. Mellark has let this happen time and again.  
  
And Peeta’s brothers have had their fill in the Seam. There’s been a long standing rumor that the eldest son was in love with a Seam girl, but when his mother threatened to give the bakery to her middle son at the mere idea of marrying her, he dumped his “love” and settled for a nice merchant girl.  
  
And if the other rumors are true and came to light, Mrs. Mellark would throw her middle son out as quickly as she did Peeta. All because his interests in the Seam have nothing to do with girls, or so they say.  
  
At least Peeta had the courage to go against her demands which is more than I can say for any of them. They all hide behind the tyranny of this shrew with their own secrets and did nothing as she sent Peeta to live in that tiny, gray house all alone.  
  
My anger roils and churns until I can’t stop the words that spill out. “You hateful woman!” I spit, popping up out of the chair and pushing it away from me so that I can come eye to eye with her. “You think closing your doors early is what’s destroying your family. Let me tell you what everyone in the district knows about you: you are the one destroying your family. Whether it’s teaching them to hate themselves or whether it’s because they have to hide what they really want. I felt guilty for Peeta moving into that tiny house because of us, but seeing you in all of your glory, I think we’re the best thing that ever happened to him!”  
  
Her eyes dart around, and what I can only guess is shame flickering across her face for an instant while her mouth hangs open. I don’t wait for any response before I turn and head for the back door. I leave them, but not before giving them the last, searing piece of my mind. "Oh, and he is a man for spending what could be his last days working in the mines to be a part of his daughter's life. I think he's made something of himself, alright. A father!"

It's true! Not even a Seam boy would quit school to work in the mines before his last reaping. Not for anything or anyone, but Peeta did. Fueled by that thought, I slam the door behind me and stomp down the stairs. Someone calls my name by the time I’m at the bottom. Mr. Mellark stands at the door with the bag that was for Flower in his hand. As angry as I am, I might toss them on the road, so I tell him instead, “Give them to Peeta for tomorrow.”  
  
Turning away, I hear him ask, “When would you like the cake?”  
  
This stops me cold. I’d completely forgotten why I was here. The the guilt eases my anger as I turn to face him again. I'm still angry with them, with them all, but the way Mr. Mellark looks so defeated, I at least try to calm my voice. “The thirty-first. What will I owe you?”  
  
He turns his head towards the inside of the house before giving me a pointed look, “Let’s just say we’re even.”  
  
I nod and walk away, ready to put as much distance between me and the bakery as I can.

* * *

Like most mornings, I hear Prim and Flower outside of our room. It's easy to picture them at the table eating breakfast. Out of habit, the first thing I reach for are my hunting clothes before I remember that this isn't a hunting day. Everyday is usually a hunting day for me, but I decided last night, after my disastrous visit to the bakery that I would sacrifice a day of hunting so Peeta could spend more time with Flower.  
  
It’s not a huge sacrifice because Sundays aren't the most productive for me anymore. The Hawthorne boys are usually tromping through the woods so that the oldest brother can teach his younger siblings how to hunt. The problem is that the youngest Hawthorne boy, Vick, sounds like a bear with stone-lined boots.  
  
He scares the prey away and with the amount of ground they cover, I'd be lucky to get anything on Sundays.  
  
Dressed in my nicer shirt and pants, I leave the room to find Prim cleaning the dishes they’d used, with Flower on the floor and in her everyday clothes. She's growing again, soon she'll outgrow everything completely and we'll have to use some of our saved coin to replace them. We don't have hand-me-downs for her. All of Prim's clothes that weren't reduced to rags were sold long ago.  
  
"There's breakfast for you in the pot," Prim tells me, pointing to the stove and then towards the nearby counter, "and a basket with some biscuits and strawberries for the visit."

"I just wish I had that for the last visit. I felt so guilty eating his food."  
  
"How were the cheese buns?" she asks, taking a seat in one of the chairs. "I've never had them before."  
  
I'm spooning some honey over my boiled seeds when I almost drop the spoon into the bowl. "I told you he baked. I didn't tell any of you that he made cheese buns."  
  
Prim's head dips down low to hide her eyes from me, muttering, "Oh, I could've sworn you did."  
  
"Prim," I say her name, stretching it out with the expectation that she come clean this instant. There's something going on and I will find out what it is before we leave.  
  
For a while, Prim doesn’t say anything, hoping that I would let it go and eat my food, but I haven’t budged. Prim's fully aware that I’m stubborn, but sometimes she forgets how patient I can be when I hunt, and right now she's my prey. After a long, loud exhale and a glance my way—not that she can look me in the eye—she confesses.  
  
“Peeta came by Wednesday. He wanted to know if you liked cheese buns. We didn’t know so he said he’d make them and hope for the best. Mama and Daddy thought it was best not to tell you.”  
  
"Why would they think that?" I ask her but don't really expect an answer. The answer's clear, they were meddling again.  
  
"Oh, Katniss, I think it was the right decision," Prim defends their interference which makes me feel betrayed twice over. It feels worse from Prim. "We had to. What would you have done if we told you Peeta was making you dinner?"  
  
My first response is to tell her that it wouldn't have changed anything. What's the big deal? After a moment, I remember how I felt coming home from his house. The fear I felt thinking about what it all meant which is starting to seep in again.  
  
"You see?" she asks, pointing to my face. "That's why we couldn't tell you." The expression I wear must mirror exactly what I’m feeling which would also explain the very self-satisfied Prim eyeing me. "You wouldn’t have taken Flower to see him. You would have thought about nothing else until eventually driving yourself, and everyone else, crazy. Your mind is too busy for your own good, Katniss," she says before standing, lifting Flower into her arms and going into our room muttering something about changing Flower before we have to go.  
  
I'm left alone with my half-honeyed bowl of boiled seeds, and I've lost my appetite.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As mentioned in this chapter, from the timeline in my outline, it's been ten days since Peeta found out and everything that's happened since. I guess because I'm writing it and deep in the trenches, it feels like it's been ages in between. I guess this is the feeling you get when you slow down the story? I hope you guys are still enjoying it, even though everything is inching along.
> 
> BTW, you guys have blown me away with all of the comments, kudos and bookmarks. I really thought no more than a few people would be interested in this because it's such a common plot. Still, I appreciate all of you for your support.


	10. In the Meadow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Halloween, Everyone!
> 
> Here's another 4000+ word chapter. Like the last, it's under 5000 so it satisfies my limit and over 4000 so those of you who like a beefy chapter can hopefully enjoy.
> 
> Other notes about this chapter: It could have gone one of two ways and I'm not sure how I feel about this scene, but I guess I'll see how it fits together with other elements as I move forward in the story. Just a warning though, there may be some retro-changes to it later on, but I'll let you guys know if there are any.

This time when I walk to Peeta's house with Flower in my arms, there are whole families outside taking advantage of the warm weather and the one day of the week when miners can enjoy their families from sunrise to sunset. The several houses we pass I see parents cuddled together watching their children play, or parents and children play together. Even the families without food find the strength because family is all we really have in our district.  
  
This thought makes me think of Peeta and his family, how they’ve left him with nothing and no one. Essentially, he’s no better off than those who live around him. I remember that we’re going to see him, visitors to remind him that he’s not alone which makes my stride a little faster.  
  
It doesn’t take long for the rows of small houses to come into view. There’s no cook fire and no one sitting outside like they did the last time we were here. Where they gathered together for a dinner Friday night, I guess they don't for breakfasts Sunday mornings. It’s eerily quiet. I do see the occasional curtain sway, but otherwise it feels dead, lifeless. Sadly, I can’t honestly say that it was much livelier when they were outside, because even then it didn't seem like they were interested in speaking with anyone else...except for me.  
  
At least I remember which house to go to, which is a good thing because there’s no one to help me this time. Flower remembers too, pointing to Peeta's door and squealing with delight, "Cheese!" It’s a new word for her, the pronunciation’s rough but still recognizable. My mother and Prim had mentioned how she's been trying out the word several times yesterday, but I haven’t heard her say it for myself until now.  
  
There’s a swell in my chest at her new achievement that I would normally identify as a general happiness for my sister’s achievement, but she’s not my sister. She’s my daughter, and for the first time I accept the feeling for what it really is: pride. I’m proud of her.  
  
My cheeks are tight against my smile as I agree with her because I know exactly what she’s thinking. “Those cheese buns were good, weren’t they?” She smiles at me, that bright, full smile that brings out even more of Peeta's features.  
  
She points again to the door and says louder, “Cheese!”  
  
“Not this time.” I lift the basket that’s in my free hand. "Strawberries." I’m sure this will be enough to get her mind off of the cheese buns. Flower loves strawberries, almost as much as Madge. So when the smile disappears from her face as she looks at the basket, then at me again, that uncomfortable twist in my gut starts. It worsens when her lips turn downward and her pudgy fist rubs at her face. "No," she half whines, half whimpers. "Cheese."  
  
She's ready to cry and I don't have time to calm her before the door opens. I hadn't knocked, but as loud as Flower is being, there's no surprise I didn't have to. I close my eyes and brace myself for the fit of tears, that great cry Flower's working towards, but it doesn't come. Instead, she squirms her body in my arms until I have no choice but to set her on the top step.  
  
Peeta’s been taking the sight of us in, leaning his shoulder against the frame of the door and amused by Flowers antics, but as soon as she toddles in his direction, he rights himself and kneels down closer to her level.  
  
Flower gives him one of her best smiles, the very one she’s inherited from him, and demands, “Cheese!" Peeta looks up at me for some help, and my only response is the rush of heat all over my face.  
  
"Cheese?” he asks her, but he’s eyeing me for confirmation. “Does she want cheese buns?” I nod and look helplessly at the basket in my hand. If she has her mind set on cheese buns, where not even strawberries can entice her, how will this day go without them?  
  
“I didn't make...I thought we were..." Peeta gives up and his eyes dart around, mostly towards the main road as though he's ready to run straight to town and make her some.  
  
I have to correct this somehow before he does, so I tell her, "No, Flower. We've having strawberries today."  
  
There's something in her eyes that I don't understand as she turns to me with her lips pressed tightly together, the bottom protruding along with her brows furrowing. Her small foot stomps hard before she points to Peeta. "Cheese!" she says once again with just as much resolve as before, but there's something about the way she is demanding the pastry that doesn’t seem to fit. It's almost as though...  
  
I take the few steps to stand closer to them both and clap my hand on Peeta’s shoulder. Flower watches me intently as Peeta’s body stiffens at my touch. I ignore his reaction because I’m too preoccupied with readying myself to say the word I've been avoiding. If what I think is going on, I can't avoid it anymore. It’s my fork in the road and I have to pick the path and stay on it, no matter what may come farther down it.  
  
Both Flower and Peeta are looking at me now that I'm obviously struggling with something. After a few hard swallows, I force it out, even though my throat feels like I've swallowed sand, and I can barely breathe. "Daddy." I clap my hand on his shoulder again to make sure she understands. "This is Daddy."  
  
For a moment, her brows furrow in confusion. It's understandable. Until recently, Flower has been calling my father daddy. Getting her to stop calling him that hasn't been easy, and it doesn't help that she hasn't learned the word grandpa. My mother assures me that she'll adjust, that she's young enough that she won't even remember what she used to call us.  
  
And now, I have to teach her what to call Peeta. Flower tests out the word looking at him, "Daddy?" then at me for confirmation that the word and the person do go together. I nod, hoping I don't regret this later, that I don't hear Flower crying that very word for a person that has left her and will never come back.  
  
I’m so focused on Flower that I don’t notice Peeta until he suddenly wipes his forehead with his upper arm and announces, "The house is a little too warm. Why don't we go to the meadow?" I'm surprised that he has nothing to say about what Flower's just learned. It's a step further into making all of this official, but I'm more interested in the strange way he moves his arm and hides his face by hanging it low as he stands. It’s a casual, fluid movement, but it strikes me as not as casual as he’d like me to believe.  
  
When Peeta turns into the house quickly, letting me know that he's going to get an old blanket, his voice cracks at several of the words. I catch a glimpse of how sleek his cheek is with moisture right before he turns away completely. Although he wanted me to think it was his brows he'd wiped, it was actually his eyes.  
  
I don't confront him about this. Honestly, I don't know what to say so I let him disappear into his house without a word. It takes him a while to return, much longer than anyone would need to get a blanket, with his eyes as red as his face. I don't question that either.  
  
Flower smiles and squeals "Daddy!" I think she's more pleased with herself having learned what to call Peeta than happy to see him reemerge from the house, but I don't think he cares. The smile he wears is something to behold: there's no pain, no fear, nothing but pure unadulterated joy. I envy him that.  
  
Eyes behind curtained windows follow us as we leave his house and walk to the main road. I recognize several faces from Friday night, seemingly more interested now that it's not just me and Flower. I guess seeing us all together for themselves, it’s proof that the rumor is true. With the three of us, especial when Peeta and Flower are close, when you can really see how much they look alike, it's a rumor that's hard to deny.  
  
They shamelessly watch us without trying to hide themselves in their windows until we're too far down the road to see. That's when we trade one audience for another. Instead of the single adults behind their windows, we have whole families outside stopping whatever it is they were doing from their only full day together to stand stock still and stare.  
  
My arms squeeze Flower closer to me as my head drops down over her, my useless attempt to hide us from their prying eyes. Flower's oblivious to the attention thanks to her youth, but Peeta doesn't seem bothered by them either.  
  
"They're watching us," I finally tell him after the sixth house we've passed where this happens. My anger's starting to overpower myself-consciousness, and I'm near ready to confront the next family that decides that our walk to the meadow is more interesting than spending quality time with family that they don't get the rest of the week.  
  
Peeta glances around us and shrugs. “Let them stare. _I_ have nothing to be ashamed of.”  
  
The way he stresses the word as though they have some extra meaning makes my skin prickle. “Do you think I’m ashamed of Flower? It’s not like it’s something new for a Seam girl to have a baby before eighteen,” I quickly defend myself. “And I think I’m more capable than most providing for her.”  
  
“I don’t think anyone’s ever doubted that, Katniss,” he replies, but there’s so much sorrow in his voice that I’m a little taken by surprise.  
  
“Then why would I be ashamed of her?”  
  
“Not of her,” he sighs, shuffling along so that his toes kick up the dry dirt with each step. It billows out into a cloud of ashen brown with the black speckles of coal dust before he kicks up another cloud. “I work in the mines, I live in the Seam, but maybe that’s not enough to be Seam.”  
  
He thinks I’m somehow ashamed of him? The idea never crossed my mind. It’s actually absurd, but the way his body slumps, looking beaten and weary and so different from when we started this walk, it’s obvious that it’s not as absurd to him. Worse still, I realize that my words still haunt him, worry him, that he’s not Seam enough to be Flower’s father. When I said those words to him in the backyard of the old abandoned apothecary, I expected him to give up. Honestly, I expected him to feel some remorse that he had a daughter somewhere in the Seam, because he does have a kind heart, but then move on because he had too much to lose.  
  
Now, here he is, having given up all of it, his comforts, his family, to be a father to a little Seam girl. He’s made me eat those words. Peeta hasn’t caught up to that fact yet.  
  
“You’ve done enough Peeta. Seam, merchant, it doesn’t matter at this point. What matters is that you stay.”  
  
“What does that mean?” Peeta asks me, but when I continue to walk down the road without his answer, he shifts the basket and blanket into his other hand and reaches for my free elbow to stop me in the middle of the road. “What does that mean, Katniss?”  
  
“You know exactly what I mean. If you were to change your mind and leave the Seam, everyone in town would welcome you back with open arms, including your mother. When working in the mines has cracked your skin and worn your back, a comfy life in town would look better and better.”  
  
Peeta’s lips part until his mouth is almost open fully and his brows drop deep down as something slowly works its way into his thoughts. “Is that it? You think I’m going to leave.”  
  
“Tell me it’s not true, Peeta. Tell me they wouldn’t welcome you,” I dare him. The challenge burns my face, my eyes as I lock them with his. Flower grows restless in my arms, but I shift her to the other arm and bounce her absentmindedly as I continue waiting for his response.  
  
“They would, but do you think I would leave her?” His eyes flick over to Flower before locking back to mine. “She’s all I have in this world that’s real.”  
  
It takes a moment for his words to sink in, to really sink in. Who does he have? I think of Peeta’s family, how his mother threw him out, and how the rest of his family let her do it. Mattie and his friends from school? Their love and loyalty came with strict conditions, each and every one of them. Be a good merchant boy and marry a good merchant girl. No deviation allowed. I open my mouth to say something, but there’s nothing to say, nothing to force out. He’s right.  
  
All I can do is continue to walk down the road to the meadow. Peeta follows me quietly.  
  
Flower watches him over my shoulder. She squirms in my arms, and when I pull back just enough to see her face, I also see her hands reaching out. “Daddy,” she calls to Peeta with her hands outstretched and opening and closing. She wants him to hold her now. I do wonder what’s brought this on, but I don’t question it because I could use the rest. Peeta’s smile is stretched to its limit as he eagerly accepts the weight of the toddler, nuzzling his cheek against hers.  
  
“How could I ever give this up?” he murmurs as he continues to hold Flower close. Flower takes a sopping finger that she’d stuffed in her mouth and traces Peeta’s eyebrows, but when she gets to his nose, he kisses her finger which draws out a giggle from her. She places her finger near his nose again and he quickly kisses it again. It’s become a game and Flower’s having the time of her life.  
  
“I think we better keep going if we plan to get to the meadow before sunset,” I tease, but I’m sure Peeta would happily spend the rest of his day off in the middle of the road if it meant playing with his daughter.

* * *

“Flower!” Flower squeals while holding up a scraggly daisy she found in a patch of scraggly daisies. Half its petals have browned, and the stems are thin and weak looking. We find them every year in the meadow, but I’m surprised that they’ve managed to grow here at all in this lifeless soil.  
  
Peeta takes the flower and sticks its stem into Flower’s curls. “A flower for a flower,” he tells her before she beams one of their winning smiles at him and turns back to the patch of daisies to pick more flowers.  
  
Peeta’s eyes have been on her almost the entire time we’ve been here, but now they slide their way to me. I hear the rapid intake of breath as though he’s about to say something before he lets it out and remains quiet. This happens a few more times before I’ve had enough.  
  
“What is it?”  
  
His eyes widen as though he didn't expect me to ask. It's either that or my rough tone. Whatever it is, I don't care because I just want him to say what’s on his mind.  
  
It takes him a few moments to recover before he finally asks, “Why me?”  
  
It's a strange question, and the muscles along my brow tighten as I try to figure out what he’s talking about. My confusion is evidently easy to see because he goes on. “That night,” he explains, “why me?”  
  
It takes a moment for it to sink in what he’s talking about, but when I realize this is about that night after our fifth reaping, when we were sixteen and drinking and created the little flower picker, my cheeks burn along with my face and there’s the hot prickle along the nape of my neck.  
  
My fingers have become my focal point, my place to look so that I won't have to face him. My mind races to find the right words, but all I come up with is the same explanation I'd given my family, the bare truth. I can't shake the feeling that telling him will hurt him, but I have nothing else to offer. “I wanted one night to be like everyone else.”  
  
“So I was a tool? A piece in your game of pretend?” The resentment isn’t hidden from his tone. Even though I expected that he wouldn’t like my answer, to face it head on feels worse.  
  
“It wasn’t like that,” I say, but sadly it’s low and lacks the resolve I wish I had.  
  
“And how many times have you played that game, Katniss? With how many others?”  
  
“The one time,” I say firmly, a little offended by the question. Does he think that I did that often? It occurs to me that he doesn’t know. That he’s in the same situation that I’m in: we really don’t know each other.  
  
“Only once?” I force myself to look at him, wondering what he’s asking this time. And now his face matches how mine feels, beet red and burning hot. “You only…the one time?”  
  
“Yes,” I answer, still wondering what he’s getting at.  
  
“No one before?”  
  
“Only. I think it goes without saying no one before and no one after, what’s your point?” I snap at him. Each question he asks stokes my anger just a little bit more. "What? You expected a list of others because I'm from the Seam?"  
  
"No, Katniss," he says to me gently. It's such a change from his earlier tone and a huge contrast to my harsher one. "Not because you're from the Seam. Every girl I've known already had a list by the time they were sixteen, merchant and Seam."  
  
My mouth drops at that bit of information. Even though teen pregnancies aren't unheard of in town, they happen far less than in the Seam. Most times, it's an eighteen year old merchant girl ready to claim her husband after their last reaping. "I didn't know that. They never come to my mother."  
  
"No, they wouldn't, I suppose. Most families in town with girls invest a good chunk of coin for pills from the Capitol. Prevents pregnancy or something." He looks around, avoiding me before his eyes land on Flower. "When we... I though you had something like that with your mother's herbs."  
  
"My mother doesn't have anything like that," I explain. "All of her herbs are used for afterward."  
  
He nods at that. "But none of this explains why you picked me. Any boy in school would've jumped at the chance to be with Katniss Everdeen."  
  
I don’t think that’s true, but even more, I don't like the way he says my name as though it belongs to someone well known like a hunger games victor or the president. What I like even less is that he is waiting for an answer to a question I don't like to give much thought to which is why I don’t give it any more thought before I say my answer, "Because you gave me the bread that day."  
  
As I say the words, I regret them. Even more when I see his reaction. I'm not sure what I expected but certainly not the look of horror I find on his face. "For fuck sake, Katniss!" he hisses as he lifts himself from his reclined position. Flower looks up from the robust clumps of dandelions with tall, strong stems and perfect orange flowers. This causes Peeta to immediately soften his voice. "Are you telling me that was payment or something?"  
  
His reaction makes sense, now, and I'm just as horrified by that interpretation. I can understand how he came to it, but the idea causes bile to rise up in my throat. I need time to think about what I'm going to say this time so that there aren't misunderstandings like that again, but I also need to fill in the gap of time with an answer which is why I shake my head for the moment.    
  
He waits not very patiently for the rest of my answer.  
  
"It’s not like that. You have to understand, my father had given up after the explosion. I think he wanted to die when he realized that he could never provide for us, that he'd have to watch us fade away like other Seam families. My mother spent most of her time trying to keep him alive. That’s when I realized most of my mother's work with herbs was mostly charity. Those in the Seam can't afford to pay and those from town won't have anything to do with her."  
  
What I felt then resurfaces fresh and raw, catching me by surprise. I remember that aching, hollow feeling as I think of Prim's cheeks sunken in and my mother’s typically womanly figure having gone thin and practically shapeless. My father refused to eat and was barely more than skin hanging from bone.  
  
These were the images in my mind as I tried to sell Prim's baby clothes. They were what haunted me when I searched the bakery garbage cans only to find nothing. I was ready to give up like my father, ready to die in the street like so many others. "And then you threw me the bread. A stranger. You knew your mother'd hit you when you burned those loaves, didn't you?"  
  
He nods. "I wish I could've done more."  
  
Perhaps it's because the memories have left my feelings exposed, but I don't know why I reach to take Peeta's hand in between both of mine. "You did so much!"  
  
"Just two loaves..." he mutters, looking down to the ground.  
  
"And hope, Peeta." I don't look away from him, even through the emotions roil inside me and all I want to do is draw my knees close and hide. I can't this time, because I want him to know how much it meant to me and my family, his one simple act of kindness at his own expense. I hadn't thanked him, but if nothing else, I will now. "The bread kept us alive, but the hope you gave me kept us going well after. 'Thank you' doesn't seem enough."  
  
"Was that what it was that night? Gratitude?"  
  
I shake my head and feel a rush of heat throughout my body as he stares at me. Everything about him has softened considerably, including the tension around his sky blue eyes. It makes my stomach twist and my own body tense. "It was why I trusted you." My gaze drops when the words tumble out, "I don't think I could've trusted anyone else to be so close."  
  
His free hand covers mine, drawing my attention. “I didn’t know,” he whispers, and I’m not sure what he’s confessing that he didn’t know, but at this point I can’t say it matters. He adds, “I want to thank you, as well.”  
  
My eyes quickly shift from our hands to his eyes just as he looks away for a moment and blinks hard before returning his focus to me. “You are the best thing that’s ever happened to me. Both of you.”  
  
His fingertips glide their way across my skin, and I watch as they make their way to my elbow before looking up to find his eyes still on me. There's a tightening deep down in my stomach as he leans in. He's so close that I feel his breath against my skin. I close my eyes, and the sudden, potent memory of how warm his lips were that night, years ago is my only thought.  
  
I don't feel him, but I hear a giggle next to me. Both Peeta and I turn to find Flower clutching a number of flowers and hiding her face behind them with a great pile of more flowers behind her. She's looking at us and the giggles continue.  
  
Peeta reaches for her, but then his brows scrunch down and he gives her a long look. “Hmm, I guess a change is in order?”  
  
At first, I don’t understand what he means by that, but then I look to where he’s patting her rear, testing for moisture. “Oh,” I say before reaching for one of the diaper cloths that’s been dangling from my back pocket.  
  
I haven’t changed Flower since she was six months old, but I’m sure it can’t be that difficult to remember. The first thing to do is to lay her on the blanket and unfasten the pins. That’s easy, and boosts my confidence going forward. Peeta watches closely and it wouldn’t surprise me if he’s ready and willing to do this the next time.  
  
All that’s left is to slide the cloth between her legs and fasten the pins, but this turns out to be the harder part. I can’t seem to line up the edges of the cloth the right way so that they stay put. Each time Flower stands, it drops down to the blanket at her feet. She’s getting just as frustrated as I am, having me constantly lay her down to fix it.  
  
I'm so close to done, I know I am, when Flower screeches out a high pitched cry before it settles into a howl. I accidental stuck her with the pin. Her legs are kicking at me and her fists are flailing and no matter the apologies or the comfort I try to give, nothing consoles her. In fact, every time I get close to her, she howls a little louder which makes me start to cry.  
  
There are several tears rushing down my cheek before I wipe at them angrily because one of my fears I've tamped down is surfacing. I make a bad mother. My family insists that I can do this, but looking at Flower is proof of the opposite.  
  
My face is in my hands, but I feel a gentle pat against my back as I hear Peeta’s voice, “It’s okay, Katniss. We’ll figure it out.”  
  
I turn to him, face swollen and vision slightly blurred to see the smile that’s become soothing to me. I nod because I want to believe him. I try to let myself believe him.


	11. It's Settled

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm having a harder and harder time editing. Please bear with me.

There are a couple of reasons why it feels strange to be in town today. For one, I’m walking around with my forage bag full and my pocket's jingling and heavy with coins because Peeta insisted.  
  
Miner's are paid on Fridays. He made sure to stress how he’d intended to give me his pay that evening, but he fell asleep and could barely clear his head before we were gone. Sunday, however, I have a feeling he’d spent the entire day in the meadow plotting when and how he would broach the subject.  
  
We were walking home, Flower half asleep in his arms as he started the assault. I refused, and he said nothing more about it…until he was on the top step of my front door, handing over a limp, unconscious toddler. After a good full minute of the back and forth, the “Take it, Katniss,” from him and the constant, “No,” from me, all I wanted to do is go inside and put an end to the argument, but he’d already made sure that I couldn’t. The bulk of his body blocked my way into the house.

"Take it, Katniss," he demanded once more, holding out the pouch full of coins.  
  
"We've done just fine without you." The words and my tone are a little harsher than I’d intended, but I couldn’t help it. Never mind the fact that he was being so obnoxious in his insistence, the offer had already touched on a nerve. For years, I've prided myself in that I’ve provided for my family. They're not plump like some from town, but they're nowhere near starving. We can afford clothes and house repairs when they're needed. That's more than most families in the Seam can say.  
  
Even so, I knew Peeta didn't deserve that reaction. "I didn't mean it that way. I meant we're fine, Peeta."  
  
"Then be even better," he said to me, seemingly unfazed by anything I had to say, still holding out the pouch but shaking it this time.  
  
"I can't take your entire wage." If I didn't have Flower in my arms, I would have folded them across my chest to emphasize my stance on the matter. I'd hoped the tightness around my lips and deep creases in my brows would be enough.  
  
Peeta rolled his eyes at me, turning away with lips as tightly pressed together as mine and shaking his head in frustration. I watched his eyes close under his furrowed brows and with the lull in our argument, I really noticed how long his lashes were, the curve of his nose, how the muscles of his jaw worked hard, emphasizing its angles. His lips disappeared as he sucked them in in concentration, and I remember how soft and warm they were too long ago. What I wasn’t prepared for was the disappointment that I didn’t feel them again in the meadow, or how I wanted to feel them at that very moment.  
  
When his eyes snapped open and he sifted through the pouch, all of those thoughts gave way to my curiosity. A few coins were taken out and stuffed into his pocket before he held the pouch out again.  
  
"Half my wage," he said firmly. I was about to refuse that as well, but he beat me to it. "Before you refuse this, just know that it's the only compromise I'll accept. I will give the whole thing to your parents. I'm sure they'll have no problem taking it."  
  
I snatched the pouch, the burlap rough against the palm of my hand, because I was left with no choice. My parents would take whatever he offered, pleased with his financial help—even though we don’t need it—and responsible behavior. Not to mention, they’d interfered enough, and I wanted to avoid them being in the middle of yet another issue between us.  
  
He stepped to the side to clear the way for me to go into my house with a smug grin that did irritate me, but didn't make me as angry as I should've been.  
  
By the time I was at my door, he was already down the steps and on his way to the main road when he called back, "See you both next Sunday,” and then whistled his way home.  
  
Flower lifted her head at the sound of his raised voice but then it flopped back down to my shoulder as I watched him for a long while. "He won this time," I whispered to her before going inside.  
  
I'm reminded of how much he won that argument as the coins jingle with each step down the main road in town.

The other reason why it’s strange to be in town is because Prim and Flower are with me. Prim insisted that we use some of the coins Peeta gave me to buy Flower new shoes and a new dress. "She's growing like a weed, Katniss," she said as she picked up my daughter and left our house, not taking “no” for an answer.  
  
Just like in the Seam Sunday, everyone in town stops what they're doing to watch us. They cover their mouths in their conversation of what I'm sure is about me and Flower. It seems in town all that’s needed to stir the gossip is having me and Flower within sight nowadays.  
  
Our first stop is the clothier who has a beautiful white dress with orange and yellow flowers in the display window. Prim eyes it immediately before we even go in, and it's price tag is the first thing she's interested in when we enter. "It's the right size, Katniss! With enough room for her to grow into it.”  
  
It's the first time Mrs. Sawyer decides to do anything besides stare from her seemingly fixed position behind the the counter. "It's very expensive," she mutters to us with a sour look on her face and a condescending and almost hostile tone. The merchant woman's never been warm to those from the Seam, but this is something different from her typical calm reserve.  
  
I check the price of the dress and calculate the difference with what I have in my pocket. "We have enough coin," I tell her before removing the garment from the rack. In all honestly, the dress costs damn near every coin Peeta gave me, but Prim really wants it for Flower.  
  
That look on Mrs. Sawyer's face doesn’t change as she packs the dress or even when I pay for it. As we walk out, I can feel her eyes on our backs.  
  
I'm ready to call it a day. We don't have enough coin to buy Flower shoes, and I'd rather trade what I have in my forage bag tomorrow if it means I can avoid their stares for the rest of the day. Unfortunately, Prim doesn't see it the same way. "She really needs shoes.” She then adds as though it makes everything all right. “Mr. Cartwright's reasonable. I’m sure he'll accept trade,” she says as she eyes the forage bag.  
  
Any other time I would've agreed with her, but it's clear as day that this may not be true now. Mrs. Sawyer was once reasonable even if aloof, but look at her now.  
  
As soon as we enter the shoe shop, I expect the sour look on the faces of the merchant family inside, but I don’t expect what actually happens. As soon as the three of us step inside the shop, we’re bombarded with an avalanche of words from a very excited Delly Cartwright. "Katniss Everdeen! And Primrose! And…Flower!!"  
  
"Peeta's told me so much about her," she rushes to Prim and immediately starts to wiggle her fingers in Flower's face. Flower, however, doesn't know what to make of the very friendly, very talkative girl. At least she's not scared and crying. I would if I were her.  
  
"Every time he stops by, all he can talk about is how proud he is and the words he knows she can say.” I wonder if she's heard the most recent word. It's not new for Flower, she used to call my father "Daddy," but it's new for Peeta. I don't have time to wonder about that for very long because Delly continues to talk, and I’m trying to make an effort to keep up with what she’s saying out of politeness. We do want to trade for shoes, after all, and it would be rude to ignore her and then ask for a trade.

“Such a smart girl. All I could say at that age was mama, daddy, and soo. That meant "shoe" of course."  
  
The problem is that she’s constantly talking, and quickly. I'm not sure if she's taken a breath yet.

"And she's so beautiful. Brains and beauty. Poor Peeta's going to have to have his hands full! And—"  
  
"Delly! Delly!" I try to stop her before she can move on to whatever else she wants to say. I might have scared her, judging by the way her eyes widen and she jumps away from my sister and daughter.  
  
"We need shoes for Flower." I point to her small feet and the worn shoes that cover them. Delly's smile that was startled away comes back as quickly, and she's a flurry of movement. She reaches for a thin plastic board before rushing over to a nearby bench. "Bring her here so I can measure her feet," she says to Prim, patting the seat.  
  
Flower is placed on the bench and her feet don't come close to touching the floor so they dangle as she watches Delly with fascination. The last time she was in the shoe store, she was under a year old and it was a far calmer Mr. Cartwright taking the order.  
  
As frenetic as Delly is, she's gentle and calm when it comes time to removing Flower’s shoes and measuring her feet. Where the underside of Flower’s foot makes contact with the plastic, the material softens until Delly pulls it away and there's a perfect imprint on one side of it. Delly does the same for Flower's other foot and then tickles her.  
  
"I think these are the most beautiful prints I've ever seen!" She holds the board to Flower. "Are you sure these are yours?" she teases and Flower giggles. I'm not entirely sure she understands Delly, but I'm sure she understands the girl's sentiment. "I guess it makes sense. A beautiful girl, beautiful prints." Flower draws her hands to her face with high-pitched squeals of some giggle and laugh combination.  
  
“We can pay you in trade,” I lift my forage bag, ready to poke around for the mink I caught today. It’s very little meat, but the fur is excellent. It could make for a fetching lining or trimming for shoes or boots.  
  
“Oh, no, that won’t be necessary.” Delly waves my offer away as she slides behind the counter. “Peeta tells me she’s one year old, so I owe her a birthday gift,” she says as though it’s such an obvious thing before squatting down behind the counter.  
  
Prim sits on the bench next to Flower while I wander around. With the constant chatter gone, I have time to process the experience that is Delly. I think about the things she'd said and a question flies out of my mouth before I can stop it. "Does Peeta come to see you often?"  
  
Delly speaks up from her lowered position behind the counter. If she’s surprised by my question, I can’t hear it in her voice. I can't say the same for myself since I have no idea why I’m interested in that particular question.  
  
“Of course he does! Peeta and I have been friends since we were little. I used to call him my brother.” Delly pops up from the counter for a moment and looks around before sinking back down. “For years I wanted to trade him with my little brother.”  
  
I breathe out and don’t like the way tension in my shoulders melts away at her words, especially since I wasn’t aware that it was tense in the first place. Asking myself why only leads to one simple thought, one that I’m not sure I have a right to be thinking: He’s mine. With it comes the image of his arms around me and his lips to mine. And then reality sets in with the fear. That painful image of Flower crying for him to come back when he’s had his fill of the Seam, but this time I’m crying with her.

* * *

Prim's birthday is in a little under two weeks, and I'm having a hard time with the idea that my little sister will be fourteen. Fourteen. I remember when she was Flower's age, when she'd follow me around everywhere. She's no where near a baby or even a little girl anymore. Fourteen.  
  
It's why I'm waiting for her at the school. All of this growing also means she's outgrown most of her clothes and shoes like Flower. Usually it would mean that she would get the next set of my hand-me-downs, but Mama, Daddy, and I agreed to use some of our saved winter coin for a brand new dress and a pair of brand new shoes. As excited as she was shopping for Flower, I'm sure she would love it even more for herself.  
  
It’s Friday and I wait for her to be released from school, sitting on what's left of the brick boundary that once surrounded the school. All that's left are mounds with chunks of brick and mortar missing everywhere. The school isn't much better. The old, crumbling heap looks like it was built before Dark Days, maybe even before the Panem.  
  
It's been awhile but I still remember some things about the inside. It's hard to forget how poorly lit it was in most places because electricity was reserved only for the classrooms.  
  
I remember how grade levels were divvied by floors. The youngest grades were on the first floor and the older grades on the second to fifth floors. Prim's classroom should be on the third floor, and next school year she'll move to the fourth as a ninth grader.  
  
The older children are released first, and they pour out of the front door right on time. I recognize several faces, people I never had the chance to know and at this point probably never will.  
  
Madge comes out, but strangely all I get from her is a quick wave from a distance before she walks in the direction of her home. Her books are clutched tightly to her chest as she drops her head low before she disappears in the crowd. She's been strange like this since I saw her and Alby at her front door even though I never mentioned that I saw them together.  
  
When I've stopped by with strawberries to trade since, she hurries me along, and I wonder if she's afraid that I'll witness something she doesn't want me to see. Perhaps a particular something I've already seen. I'm not sure why she would hide a relationship with Alby. With his family's business, he's considered a great catch for town girls. And then I wonder if it's because Alby's half Seam.  
  
Most people forget that little detail about him because he's like Prim and Flower. To see him with his friends even I would've sworn he was all merchant if I didn't know that his grandparents took him away from his Seam mother. It doesn't hurt that his grandparents' grocery store is the most lucrative business in all of the district.  
  
Speaking of, a group of kids wander over, and I recognize many of them as kids Peeta used to spend time with. Among them is Alby and Mattie. I don't think the group sees me or recognizes me when they settle on the bricks nearby.  
  
"Have any of you seen Madge?" Alby asks the lot of them. One girl rolls her eyes and whispers in Mattie's ear and they both giggle.  
  
"Aw, Alby," Mattie's friend sighs, "give the girl some space."

Alby waves the girl's words away even though his disappointment's still there on his face as he joins the cluster of boys within their group. They're loud and rude, especially to the quieter Seam children passing by.  
  
"You could find someone to pass the time with while Madge decides what the hell she wants," suggests one of the other boys, gesturing widely at the yard full of Seam girls on their way home. I try not to pay attention to their conversation, but they're so loud and I can’t help but catch the sneer on Alby's face right before he points to one girl in particular. "Why would I want to do that? Look at 'em. Look at how bony this one is." Mattie and her friend are the first to laugh and the others follow.  
  
Of course the girl is bony. Like many in the Seam, she probably hasn't eaten a full meal in days if ever in her life, and I take his insult personally. I could easily have been that girl. I was that girl. At eleven years old when my father had given up after his injuries and we almost starved to death. If not for Peeta, we might have. He's the one who gave us a couple more days of life, with that and a renewed sense of hope, I was able to pull us through.  
  
I shake from my thoughts to find Mattie watching me. Her brows draw together and she squints as though trying to remember something. Then her eyes widen, but they stay on me.  
  
"Then again, you should watch those Seam girls. Look at poor Peeta," she says. I’m still in her line of sight. The others follow her eyes directly at me until the whole group is staring. “Sure, he had some interest outside of town but—”  
  
Her friend snorts and the boys cough back laughter. “Interest is one way to put it,” Mattie’s friend giggles. “He was ‘interested’ in just about every girl in the district.” Everyone starts to laugh in their group except for Mattie, and the words cause my stomach to twist painfully. It's the worst possible time, but this is when Prim walks up to me with a smile that is warm and friendly and nothing at all like those laughing near us.  
  
"Katniss, what are you doing here?" my sister begins to ask me, Rory, Vick, and Posy some distance behind her. The eldest of the three Hawthornes does nothing to hide his annoyance. My being here obviously keeps them from going straight home.  
  
"Look at this! More Everdeens. One's already used what's between her legs to lure a good merchant boy into the gutter with her," Mattie's friend says and I clench my fists. I can take their taunts; I've heard worse said about me and other Seam girls. The added 'attention' is no surprise now that the word is out about Flower, but I just don't want Prim to hear what they say about me.  
  
Alby adds to the hateful words, "Only a matter of time before the other Everdeen spreads her legs." Prim’s eyes widen for a second, but then she lowers her head and pulls on my arm.  
  
“Can we go now, Katniss?”  
  
I don’t want to go. It’s one thing to insult me, to direct their venom at me, but to say this about my sister has crossed a line. I don’t care if they’re from merchant families and we’re from the Seam, that we’re considered lesser somehow. Prim has done nothing wrong and doesn’t deserve to be treated this way.  
  
“Shut your mouths! All of you!” I shout loudly enough to cause everyone in the yard to stop whatever it is they’re doing and look in our direction. “And you, Alby! Your mother…” I focus on him because I find him the worst offender. He’s half from town and half from Seam, like me and Prim and Flower. He has a blood bond with the Seam; how could he find it in his heart to say these things?  
  
Alby’s eyes darken and he growls at me, “Shut your mouth,” but I continue on.  
  
“Your mother’s Seam, Alby!”  
  
He takes a few steps in my direction, and I can feel Prim’s tug on my arm is more urgent. “Shut your filthy Seam mouth!” His growl is deeper, louder, but that doesn’t deter me.  
  
“You’re like us. You’re half from the Seam. How can you—”  
  
The steps he takes are greater than the ones before and he’s in front of me in seconds. I see it coming which causes my words to die off because I’m stunned. It’s unthinkable that he would do this with some many witnesses, and I don’t have time to react before the back of his hand crashes hard against my left cheekbone sending me straight to the ground. My eyes water and my vision blurs, and I hear Prim scream before I see her hazy form next to me, in front of me, pressing her small hand gingerly against my face.  
  
Farther away, there’s another blur of blonde hair that streaks by, barreling it’s wide form into what I can only guess is Alby’s chest.  
  
He’s on top of Alby, and I see a fist pound the trapped boy below him twice before two other blonde boys pull him away. My vision is just starting to clear and I expect to see Peeta held back and panting, but it’s not him. It’s his older brother, the middle Mellark boy.  
  
No longer panting, he’s breathing heavily and shrugs angrily from the grips of the boys holding him. “If any of you you ever touch an Everdeen, any Everdeen, I’ll come for each one of you.” He narrows his sights on Alby, “Especially you!”  
  
Prim and I are too stunned to move. All we can do is watch him pull at the hem of his shirt to straighten it and walk away. I look around to find that Prim and I aren’t the only ones stunned. Mattie and her friends watch Peeta’s brother walk away then glance my way before talking among themselves. The boys they’re with don’t say anything as everyone reluctantly goes on about whatever business was interrupted.  
  
Rory Hawthorne doesn’t looked stunned, he looks livid with his eyes on Alby and his friends and his fists balled with white knuckles. “Are you ready to go, Primrose?”  
  
Prim looks confused, but nods her head and helps me up. With all that’s just happened, I decide it’s best to go home and have her pick out new clothes and shoes another day. As we walk towards the Seam, Prim pulls in close and whispers to me, “That’s the first time Rory’s ever called me by name.”  
  
Maybe this was enough to prove to Rory what my family and I already knew: Prim’s a Seam girl.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry! I kept rereading this chapter thinking I forgot something and what I forgot was to thank everyone for reading, comments, kudos, and bookmarks, but in particular a shout out to shellibug! My response to her comment was the reason why you guys will find out more about Peeta's sexual past. I originally hadn't intended to have it in the story, but typing out a reply gave me that "ah-ha" moment to use it in Mattie's comments above instead of what I had planned. This works way better. Thanks so much shellibug and everyone for your comments. They really inspire me!


	12. The Questions Come

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry this chapter took as long as it did. The holidays were way more hectic than I expected, caught the flu on New Year's Eve which took a week to recover, and then daily life got in the way. Of course the icing on the cake was that when I finally had time to come back and look at what I had written, I hated it and scrapped it.
> 
> I'm still iffy about this chapter because it's a little fragmented, but it's mostly prep for the next chapter and future events so I'm cutting myself some slack here. The editing was quick and dirty so it's likely I missed more than usual, but I wanted this posted. I'll come back to it before I post chapter 13 but if there's something huge, just let me know. 
> 
> Thanks for your patience during this extended time between chapters, thanks so much for all of the understanding and kind words shared!
> 
> Happy New Year everyone!

There’s sweat on my brow and my clothes stick to me when I bolt upright from my bed. The images are already starting to fade, and the more I try to remember my nightmare, the faster it disappears. All that’s left are fragmented images: faces of girls from town and the Seam, Peeta clean with not a smudge of coal dust on him, Mattie clinging to him with a smug smile as I watch from a distance holding Flower close. No matter how much those images fade from memory, the feelings behind them stay, a sour mixture of anger and pain and a deep sense of loss.  
  
Although the dream doesn’t surprise me after what had happened yesterday afternoon, the way it rattled me does. For the entire walk home and well into the night, I couldn’t escape thinking about it. If it wasn’t my own questions cropping up, it was Prim’s. “Why would Peeta’s brother do that?”  
  
I had no answer for her. Even after she fell asleep with Flower between us, that question and more pressed my thoughts well into the night. Not that I would find an answer.  As far as I know, what the Mellark family think of me isn’t far from what those town kids said about me yesterday. In their eyes, I’m the worst kind of Seam girl, the kind that lured a good, marriageable boy from town into the Seam and trapped him with a baby. As though having a baby would trap a boy from town.  
  
Still, last night for one insecure moment, I wondered if that’s what I’d done. I did lead him to the meadow. I did kiss him first with every intention of it going further which would be proof enough for anyone from town that I am what they think I am.  
  
And so I carefully recounted everything that had happened when we were sixteen, how the wine had gone to my head while Madge prattled on about something that I’d lost track of—having learned over the course of the night that wine makes Madge become chatty—and let my eyes wander the slag heap. There were some familiar faces, some not so familiar, but the one place I would go back to was where Peeta sat with his friends.  
  
I saw the way Mattie leaned into Peeta for a kiss and couldn’t help but wonder if his lips were as soft as they looked. When her hands rested flat against his chest, I wondered if I were to do the same would I feel those cord-like muscles I’ve only seen on the hottest summer days when the shirtless baker’s son lifted the large sacks of flour.  
  
Madge gave me a hard nudge when she caught me staring, something I wasn’t even aware that I was doing, and a nervous flush rushed through me instantly. I was sure I was caught in the act until Madge muttered how she hated those girls from Peeta’s group, especially Mattie. Relief came quickly, but even then I couldn’t stop myself from turning towards them again. It would have been only a matter of time before being truly caught. Even in my sluggish thoughts weighed down by the wine I figured this out which was why I said my goodbye to my friend and started to leave.  
  
And as I turned towards the road, I still couldn’t help myself. I had to take one last look back only to find him staring straight at me. I was caught, and white hot embarrassment whipped through me with no way to avoid it but to put some distance between me and those people before the laughter began.  
  
It never came. There was the steady sound of voices no different than what they were before, but I did hear one voice raised above the others. It called my name, “Katniss! Katniss Everdeen.”  
  
My curiosity go the better of me and I stopped and turned and was startled that it was Peeta Mellark jogging to catch up with me. I wasn’t sure how he knew my name, but after his recent confessions, it makes sense.  
  
Trying to seem calm, I answered with his name calmly, “Peeta Mellark,” and his brows raised for only a second, seemingly just as surprised that I knew his name.  
  
He opened his mouth as though he was going to say something, but then closed it, leaving us standing in the middle of the road with a dead silence as I tried to find something, anything to look at other than him. The coal dust speckles on the ground, my worn shoes, the tear in the pants I wear for hunting. There was no doubt Mattie and the other town girls didn’t have clothes as shabby as these.  
  
No matter what I found to focus on, nothing was as interesting as the silvery threads of hair that curled and reflected the light of the almost full moon. Or how his lips parted so that he could blow out some air in frustration.  
  
I’ve heard the other girls from the Seam, and from town, talk about these interests, these little fascinations with boys. I’ve overheard their hushed conversations about the desire to touch, to taste, to satisfy some mounting need. I didn’t know what they were talking about, but when Peeta started to speak, watching his lips move was mesmerizing. They bunched up into a pucker, they spread thin, they parted, they sealed together, but no matter what they did, they called to me. It took all of my strength not to lean in and taste them.  
  
So when he finished talking and looked at me with hopeful eyes expecting an answer, I didn’t know what he’d said. All I could do was shrug and start walking away, hoping that it was enough to hide that I hadn’t been paying attention, that I was preoccupied with his lips more than his words. I didn’t expect him to walk with me.  
  
Very little was said. Most of the walk he seemed to be in some constant, silent battle with himself. There were a few times when he tried to start a conversation, mentioning something about how he’d heard the end of summer was going to be a hot one and “How’s your sister?”  
  
My answer was between a grunt and a word, “Fine” which earned another question. “Primrose, right?”  
  
“Yeah,” I answered, a little surprised that he even remembered that I had a sister and her name.  
  
At first I spent most of the walk to my home wondering why he decided to walk with me, but then it seemed so obvious and simple, at least that’s what I thought at the time. A boy from town walking with a Seam girl in the middle of the night. It wasn’t the hardest problem to solve. Town boys loved to pursue Seam girls, conquests to puff up their chests and crow in front of their friends with one more tally mark on their belt. Somehow, though, deep down I didn’t think Peeta would do that.  
  
He wasn’t like those other boys. He didn’t chase after every female in the district, or at least I didn’t think he did then. None of those other boys from town would have taken a beating to sneak two loaves of expensive bread to a starving girl from the Seam. None of them would have cared enough to even notice.  
  
We were a couple of houses from my house when he turned to me, and again seemed as though he were about to say something only to smile nervously and look ahead that a warm flutter at my center started. His nervous smile was adorable. Not the same kind of adorable as the squeal of delight from Prim after she masters a healing technique, but a kind of adorable that leaves me feeling more disarmed by him, more connected to him. It flooded me with excitement and nerves that itched along every inch of my skin, as well as a kind of hunger that was just as desperate but for something other than food. I knew it had to be that mounting desire I’d heard the girls speak of and that’s when I decided that I wouldn’t object to Peeta’s advances when they came.  
  
If those girls could do it, then why couldn’t I? Just the once, just to know what they knew. We passed my house and the last few that came before the meadow when Peeta stopped abruptly and looked around, checking behind us as though it wasn’t what he’d had in mind. “I’m so sorry,” he apologized to me as though I didn’t knowingly pass my house. There was a strange sense that he may have had innocent intentions during our walk, but that couldn’t be. He may have been kind, but he was still from town. To test that, not to mention with the buzz having eased during our walk, I knew it was that moment or never and lunged myself at him.  
  
I couldn’t allow myself time to think and reconsider, planting my lips on his, and the taste of him didn’t disappoint. It was better than I imagined: fruity and warm. My fingers slipped along his scalp and his curls, turned silver in the moonlight, were soft and lush between my fingers.  
  
His reaction was a little delayed, but I just chalked that up to taking him by surprise. It didn’t take long for him react, to draw my body close to his and deepen the kiss.  
  
My head was filled with the muscles I could feel beneath his shirt, the taste of fruit and the scent of dill, and as our clothes disappeared quickly, I didn’t think about babies like I should have. As the heated ache between my legs built, all I could think of was to have him there to somehow fulfill some unspoken promise to make it better, to make me feel better. The result was...disappointing.  
  
Walking home, sore and exhausted, I thought about how silly all of the girls were to make such a fuss about something so painful, so uncomfortable. It was awkward enough to walk with Peeta back to my house. It made no sense for him to insist on it. He hadn’t said much to me after, at least after I had let him know in no uncertain terms that I wouldn’t fall for the tricks town boys play. I wouldn’t fall for his sweet words of love just for another chance back inside a Seam girl’s pants. I wouldn’t be one of those girls, and all I wanted was the one time that, honestly, didn’t live up to what those girls or even my own body promised.  
  
Watching him continue down the road was a relief, but I figured I’d hear the snickers and see the eyes on me after he told his friends. Some part of me argued that Peeta wasn't like that, but when I saw how defeated he looked walking down the road, I guessed I was wrong since he couldn’t accept that his lies wouldn’t work on me.  
  
And then I got sick.  
  
And then I noticed I’d missed a period.  
  
And then I cried.  
  
But at no time had I ever thought to tell Peeta and demand he step in as a father. I didn’t take him from town and his family. Having him play father was the furthest thought from my mind.  
  
I scrub my face with my hands and drag myself out of bed. My body feels heavy and it’s a struggle to pull on my hunting clothes, but I do and shuffle out of the door to find Prim feeding Flower.  
  
The two look happy, that is until Prim notices me standing by the door of our room. “Are you okay?”  
  
Of course I’m not. All I want to do is go back to bed, but I still have to hunt for Cray. I’d put it off all week thinking that Saturday would be plenty of time to hunt for something acceptable for him. I didn’t plan on yesterday or how it’s taken it’s toll on me.  
  
I give my sister a non-committal shrug and kiss her forehead, then Flower’s before grabbing my forage bag and shuffling out the the door.  
  
The whole walk to the meadow reminds me of the walk with Peeta, how he would look at me from the side and how it made me feel. It would be easy to blame it on the wine if I wanted to hide from the truth, but I’ve been hiding so many things for so long and where has it gotten me? The truth was that the wine’s effect had mostly waned by the time we’d passed my house.  
  
There’s no denying that I wanted him. It was all me, and I think of his words that night and his confession recently. That he’s loved me since we were little, that the night we’d spent together meant more to him than some notch on his belt. There’s something deep inside that wants to believe him, but he’s from town, and after the things his friends had said yesterday…  
  
_“He was ‘interested’ in just about every girl in the district.”_  
  
The way Mattie’s friend had said it, had emphasized “interested” meant something more which makes my insides twist every time I hear her words in her voice repeat in my head. And they repeat quite often.  
  
I hear her words as I aim my arrow at the quail. I hear them when I aim for the geese. I hear them when I aim for the squirrels. Every single time I miss my mark. It’s close to sundown when I aim for the ducks at the lake near the small house my father used to take me years ago.  
  
The arrow misses the fat one I’d aimed for, but accidentally skewers the thinner, older duck that was too slow to avoid it.  
  
The day’s almost over and this is all I have to give to the head peacekeeper which isn’t good at all.  
  
Walking through town to the barracks, I pass several people and can’t stop the question that pops into my head with each girl's face: Was Peeta ‘interested’ in her?  
  
No matter how hard I try, I can’t avoid this distraction. I have more important things to think about, like protecting my parents from being punished. If I don’t find a way to please the head peacekeeper, I’ll lose his support for keeping me out of school. I’ll have to go back, I won’t be able to feed my family, and I will fail my classes since it’s the end of the school year. There is no doubt that it will end with my parents being whipped in the center of town.  
  
And still, I can’t keep my thoughts from wandering, from wondering which girls, how many?

* * *

There’s a strange humming sound that comes from the panel at the side of Cray’s desk, but that’s the only sound in his office as he stares at me with cold eyes and the pathetic duck laying in the center of his desk. I tried to make up a story, some wild tale about elusive prey and dangerous competition from a pack of coywolves, but it didn't go over well. It’s clear Cray sees right through my lies because I'm not a good liar.  
  
I watched as his lips pressed together tighter the more I spoke, and now he does nothing but stare.  
  
I’m desperate for something, anything to get out of this, to protect my parents and my family, so I offer the only thing I have. “I'll make up for it next week. You know I'm good for it." My voice cracks midway through, but in the end it has the desired effect. Cray’s eyes soften slightly, and the tension around his lips ease, but he doesn’t say anything. All I’m given is a nod.  
  
It’s when I’m outside of his office that he speaks to me one last time. “Next week.”  
  
There’s a hard edge to his voice, undoubtedly a warning that this is my last chance. It’s the end of spring, almost the beginning of summer, so if I can just get control of where my mind is, I’ll have no problem correcting all of this. The problem is whether or not I can regain control of my thoughts.  
  
All that’s left in my forage bag is a pouch of strawberries that I’d planned to take to Madge. I expect to be hurried away as she’s done during our last few trades, handing me the coins, snatching the pouch with nothing more than a curt “hi” and “bye” before the door closes in my face. I'm expecting this so much that I’m a little surprised to see Mr. Undersee when the mayor’s door opens.  
  
"Katniss?" He seems even more surprised to see me, even though I come often in the spring and early summer.  
  
"Yes, sir. I'm here to trade for strawberries."  
  
The mayor takes the pouch and reaches into his pockets for my payment, still looking as confused as he was when he opened the door. Has it finally come to this? Has Madge distanced herself from me so much so that she won’t even trade with me?

* * *

My thoughts about Peeta and Madge have taken their toll, and I’m tired. All I want to do is wash up, have a quiet dinner and hopefully sleep peacefully. I’m at the bottom of my steps when the door opens with Madge’s back facing me. My mother says something to her that I can’t hear.  
  
It’s not unusual for Madge to come to my house. When she’s feeling more rebellious than usual, she’ll venture out to the Seam to raise some eyebrows, but this time is different. Her father seemed surprised to see me and now she seems more interested in talking to my mother than me.  
  
Madge holds my mother’s hand between hers and whispers, “Thank you,” before turning to leave and stops short when she notices me at the bottom of the stairs.  
  
“I just came from your house to trade strawberries,” I tell her, fighting the urge to pry and demand to know why she was talking with my mother, why her father seemed so surprised to see me.  
  
“Oh,” is all she says before taking to the steps and walking away.  
  
“Madge?” I call out to her but have no idea what more to say. She didn’t pry into my privacy when it came to Peeta, so I have to give her the same courtesy. It’s when she faces me again that I see it, the pouch my mother uses for her herbal blends. Madge is aware that I see it and turns away from me, hiding it with her body. There’s nothing more said as she heads to the road.

* * *

Dinner isn’t as silent as I’d hoped for, but it’s not unpleasant either. Prim's telling us about her day, how Posy Hawthorne quietly slipped her hand into Prim’s and smiled. Rory calls her by her name and all three actually speak to her even if it is awkward, polite conversations. I think she tells us these things because she’s excited but also to avoid me asking about Madge.  
  
Prim was home with our mother when Madge was here. And neither have said a word about why the mayor’s daughter had come by. It obviously wasn’t to see me.  
  
In the middle of one of Prim’s stories about her day, a pounding at the door begins causing everyone to jump at the sound. Prim and I are the closest to the door, but she’s calming an upset Flower whose face scrunches because she’s ready to cry. It was startling and the beating against the wooden door is so heavy that it rattles as though whoever it is on the other side might break it down with their fists.  
  
I stand and cross the room, ready to yell at whoever it is, but am rendered mute when I find Peeta standing there. The flush of his skin comes through the layers of coal dust from work.  
  
“Delly just told me what happened yesterday,” he says breathlessly as though he’d run all the way from town.  
  
Was Delly there and I hadn’t noticed her? Or has word spread this fast? Either way I roll my eyes because once again my life is gossip for the district.  
  
He’s still speaking to me but I can’t hear him. All I hear are the words of Mattie’s friend: “He was ‘interested’ in just about every girl in the district.”  
  
It’s only natural that my arms fold across my chest, and Peeta notices. “Katniss?”  
  
“I’ll bring Flower tomorrow,” is all I say to him before I turn and close the door behind me. I’m so very tired and rest my back against the door. My parents and Prim give me questioning looks because they don’t know what I know. Prim came after their words about Peeta’s “interests.”  
  
I ignore them, though. If they can have their secrets then I can have mine.  
  
Flower smiles brightly and smacks her spoon against the table several times while chanting, “Daddy!” and I sigh before trying to finish my dinner. The problem is that it tastes like coal dust.


	13. Absolute Chaos

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really surprised this chapter is only a few days after my 2wk mark. I had a bout with writer's block for a while, and then when I finally had a furious night of writing, I lost all of that work after a *ahem* computer accident. It was mostly written, just needed a little fleshing out but the fleshy parts proved to be the problem. *sigh* Well, you guys have the result of all of this.

Thankfully, no one says a word about what happened with Peeta at the door. The most I get are curious glances my way, but they’re easy to ignore through the rest of dinner. I’m lost in my own thoughts, I don’t need theirs as well.  
  
I decide to take Flower to bed for the night because I intend to join her. She smacks at my hands and whimpers, a sure sign that she’s overtired, and I’m starting to doubt myself. The only reason why I won’t rush out of the room and beg for help from Prim or my mother is that I’m too stubborn. And so I play a not so fun game of tug-of-war with the bedsheet while Flower barks out “No!”  
  
“Please, Flower,” I beg her as though somehow a one year old will be reasonable in her state, but I’m near tears and holding on by a thread as it is.  
  
It comes to me quickly, a shred of a memory sometime long ago when I was very young. When I was where Flower is, and my mother was where I am. I remember her face, tired and desperate for me to cooperate, but then my father would come in with a song that was gentle and calming. Before I know it, I’m humming, which eventually turns to singing. It could never be as smooth and grounding as when my father sang to me, but it’s enough to get Flower’s attention.  
  
She’s no longer fussing, but watching me carefully. Her eyes are locked on my lips as they move with each word, and after a few attempts of her own, she settles into the bed content to just listen. It’s a sweet victory when her eyelids droop and finally close completely, and her breathing deepens.  
  
Trying not to wake her, I slide into the bed beside her and close my eyes, but sleep doesn’t come easy for me. I’m still awake by the time Prim comes into the room and joins us in bed.  
  
“It was good to hear you sing. You’ve been doing it more lately than you have since before Dad…and the mines,” she says not long after her head hits her pillow. I’m not sure what to say to that. I don’t know why I’m singing now, and honestly, I’m not sure why I stopped.  
  
For some strange reason, I thought that would be the extent of our conversation, but I should have known better. Prim turns on her side to face me and asks, “Why did you act that way with Peeta? Do you blame him for what his friends did?”  
  
I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t even want to think about it but it seems I have no say on both counts because only moments after I answer with a brusque, “No, Little Duck,” she asks yet another question. “Is it because he was once friends with them?”  
  
“No, Prim,” I tell her, my patience wearing thin. Even though at the heart of it all she’s not the cause, her questions are rubbing salt on a very open and painful wound. Dredging up his friends only remind me of that other life, the one Peeta may decide to go back to. The life filled with enough food to eat and not having to work in the mines. The life where all he would have to do is marry someone like Mattie to make everyone forget his little adventure into the Seam.  
  
“I’m sure he’s no longer friends with them,” she says as though that’s the problem. Without knowing why I’m so upset with him, why I can’t even bear to think about him, I suppose it’s as good of a guess as any.  
  
“It’s a little more complicated than that,” I whisper, but my throat tightens as I think about just how complicated it is.  
  
“Then you need to talk to him. Are you going to talk to Peeta tomorrow?”  
  
I don’t answer for a long while because I don’t have one for her. I’m not sure if I’ll talk to Peeta about his friends because I’d like the visit to go as smoothly as possible, and thinking about Peeta’s past and his friends doesn’t exactly help. It’s so frustrating that my answer finally comes, “I don’t know!” but it’s rough and harsh and I immediately regret it. There's a long silence, and at first I'm sure I hurt Prim's feelings, but then she continues all the while ignoring my outburst.  
  
“Do you want to tell me? You’d be surprised how much it helps to let it out, whatever’s bothering you.”  
  
There’s a part of me that knows she’s right, that getting it off of my chest might actually help like removing the lid of a boiling pot, but the other part of me doesn’t want to burden my little sister with more of my problems. And of course there’s the one reason first and foremost in my mind: Prim’s too young to talk about these things.  
  
As though reading my mind, she adds, “I’m almost fourteen, Katniss. I can handle it.”  
  
I’m not convinced that fourteen is the age to discuss sex and what seems to be a lot of it if Peeta’s friends were telling the truth.  
  
Her voice drops down to an even softer whisper. “Is it because of the girls he’s been with?”  
  
My heart stops.  
  
“You know about that?” I whisper back, but it’s barely that. I’m trying to stay as quiet as I can so that I don’t wake Flower who’s sleeping in the bed between us, but the feelings churning inside me cause every muscle in my body to tense painfully. My throat strains out the words as I twist on my side to face her.  
  
Prim shrugs, “I’ve heard the rumors.”  
  
It’s like a gut punch, and my eyes close tightly. My little sister, barely fourteen years old, knows about Peeta’s relationships all over the district.  
  
“Katniss, the rumors about him are no different than the other boys your age, a lot of the girls, too.”  
  
My eyes snap open at this. “What do you mean?”  
  
“There are rumors about Rory’s older brother, and he’s been out of school for two years. And there are rumors starting to crop up around Rory now. I’ve heard things about most of the older kids, usually girls gossiping. I guess when you could die before you’re eighteen from starvation or the games, you take whatever comfort you can get.”  
  
There’s definitely truth in those words and I’m left staring at the silhouette of my sister in the dark, wondering how she’d become so wise at fourteen.  
  
She doesn’t say anything more, and her breathing settles into a deep and even rhythm telling me she’s fallen asleep.  
  
I can’t sleep. My thoughts rattle in my head loudly, and they’re practically unbearable in the quiet of the night. I’ve never thought much on the possibility of me being reaped, always more worried about Prim. And when I did think of being reaped, it was always framed in the fear of what would happen to my family. I never really gave myself time to think about what I could be missing out on…except that night.  
  
Each year might be our last. Even now, we have this year’s reaping in a couple of weeks and I’ve only feared for Prim, but this is my last reaping and I could very well be chosen from that accursed bowl. It’s strange that I suddenly crave Peeta’s arms to wrap around me.

* * *

My fingernail chips away at the wooden table, a very old and weather piece probably built around the time when Greasy Sae was Flower’s age. It’s soothing to pick at the splinters because it means that I don’t have to look up and face Peeta.  
  
He’s watching me, almost willing me to meet my eyes to his which is the one thing I can’t bring myself to do. I made that mistake when Flower and I first arrived and it was my downfall. The fears and anger have been hitting me hard since Friday, but in that moment at his door, the truth hit me harder. In that moment I realized that in his eyes all of those fears and all of that anger melts away until there’s nothing else but that flutter in my chest and a tightening in my gut.  
  
Around us in the small house, Flower wobbles around on legs that are getting surer and surer with each passing day. There’s barely room for me to move around, but for Flower there’s so much to explore. She moves from the table to the bed with the arm of a cloth doll clutched tightly in her right hand while her left reaches for the blanket to help her balance.  
  
The doll’s yellow yarn for hair drags across the floor, and it’s blue thread-sewn eyes stare out as it dangles and twists. It’s fabric is soft and sturdy, and the thing must have cost dearly when it was new but was well loved since, and now. The moment Peeta handed it to her, Flower was in love.  
  
Delly had given it to Peeta last night, I would guess while telling him about my Friday run-in with his friends from town.  
  
I finally give in and glance up to find he hasn’t moved. He’s sitting across from me, his eyes still fixed on me. “What happened, Katniss? You haven’t said a word to me.”  
  
I don’t want to talk about it. I’d rather talk about anything other than his friends and what they said about him because a part of me is still hoping it was a lie. If we talk about it, he may confirm that what they’d said is true and I’d no longer have anything to cling to. So all he gets is a curt, “I have. I said, ‘Hello.’”  
  
It’s no surprise that my answer doesn’t satisfy him.  
  
“What happened with them?” There’s nothing but worry in his eyes and in his body. “What did they say to you? Delly only got to tell me that they said awful things before I rushed out of town.” In frustration he sighs, “Please tell me.”  
  
My eyes cut to where Flower leans her back against the wall and holds out the doll to shake it a few times. She beams one of her winning smiles that she’s inherited from Peeta at her new toy before drawing it close her her chest. She reminds me of Peeta which tightens my gut as much as it does looking directly at him. And now when I think of Peeta I hear their voices, Mattie’s friend’s voice in particular, and their laughter. It sours my insides and my mood even more until I’m angry again.  
  
“How many sisters or brothers should I expect for Flower, Peeta?” I lash out, and honestly I’m surprised it didn’t happen sooner.  
  
There’s a prickle that starts along the nape of my neck and spreads out from there as I brace myself for his answer. Without a window into my thoughts, there's no way for him to know what I mean? Even so, the annoyance builds when he looks utterly confused.  
  
“What?” he asks with his face twisting in some kind of horrified, confused, stunned combination.  
  
“How many other children should I expect from you?” I ask again, not backing down from the line of thought.  
  
“What are you talking about?” There’s a tinge of annoyance mixed in with everything else displayed on his face, and strangely it’s satisfying. I’m angry and hurt and confused. Why should I be the only one?  
  
“Your friends…your ‘good friends’ said you were ‘interested’ in just about every girl in the district. I saw the look on Mattie’s face. You say the girls in town have Capitol medicines to avoid pregnancy, but not Seam girls. So how many?”  I fold my arms and prepare myself while watching his reaction, daring him to continue to play confused. Boys from town lie, and there’s no doubt this is his groundwork for a big fat one. Suddenly a thought I hadn’t considered before seeps into my mind which makes my stomach twist into a painfully tight knot. My head feels warm and my chest feels tight. “How many girls have come to my mother because of you?”  
  
His eyes bulge larger with every word until he shuts them tightly and shakes his head from side to side as though fighting off my words.  When the red seeps into his usually pink skin and his jaw tenses, I know it’s coming but still jump at the sudden sound when he roars out, “WHAT?”  
  
The red in his skin turns a shade darker until he looks almost purple. There’s a silence that stretches between us for seconds but feels more like hours until we’re both distracted by a loud wail near the bed. Flower’s lip is out and trembling and the tears are flowing as she holds the doll close. His outburst scared her, and before I can lift myself from the chair, Peeta’s with her, offering soothing words and a gentle hug. Her little arms wrap around his neck and he scoops her up and holds her close. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry I scared you,” he says to her, murmuring in such a sweet and loving tone as she rests her head on his shoulder.  
  
After that, we don’t talk about anything other than feeding Flower the strawberries and dried meat we brought with us until she’s curled up in the center of Peeta’s bed and sleeping with her new doll.  
  
“Katniss,” he starts, and I can't breathe because I know this is it, this is the moment when we discuss what I'd rather not discuss. The air's been thick with my own anger the moment I stepped inside his house, but with Peeta’s anger added, it’s practically suffocating. “I can’t believe they would say that to you.”  
  
“Do you deny it?” I ask, but I don't really want to know. I want so badly to believe his answer will be, “Yes." I want him to tell me they were lying that afternoon but when his eyes look down to the floor, my heart sinks.  
  
“It’s not what you think.”  
  
“Then what is it?” My lips tighten and my eyes narrow, waiting for him to explain how he had sex with all of those girls, but it’s not what I think.  
  
He opens his mouth but nothing comes out. For the one person in all of the district if not all of Panem who knows what to say every single time, he’s quiet. He can’t look at me and that only stokes the fire already starting to take over inside of me. “How many, Peeta?”  
  
“I didn’t have sex with all of them,” he sputters. “I had three girlfriends before Mattie, and I…with them…”  
  
I roll my eyes and grunt in disgust at the unwelcome image that pops into my head at that confession. Of course he was with Mattie. The way she was touching him at the slag heap those years ago as though his body was familiar territory was a sure sign of that, but my imagination runs away from me now that it’s said aloud. There’s no way to get rid of the thoughts of Mattie’s hands on his bare skin, or him caressing her the way he caressed me that night. For some reason I feel possessive of those touches and I’d like to believed they were just for me…but they weren’t.  
  
“And?” I demand that he explain more, how it’s not what I think.  
  
“That’s it. Just them…” he then adds sheepishly, “and you.”  
  
“You say you ‘didn’t have sex with all of them?’ What did you do with the rest of them, and how many?”  
  
Peeta looks around the house at everything and anything that isn’t me or Flower. There’s a war going on inside him, and finally a side wins. I’m just not sure which side that is. He glances at me from the side and huffs out a breath before he speaks again. This time his tone is harder. “You’re a piece of work, you know that? What did you think, Katniss? Did you think I would sit around and never touch another woman again? You wanted nothing to do with me, except one night to be your plaything, and now you want to judge me?”  
  
He leans onto the table and we’re face to face, eye to eye. Neither one of us looking away to make the divide clear. “I had girlfriends because it was expected of me. I had sex with them because everyone was doing it and it was expected of me, but all I could think of was you. I finally, _finally_ found a moment, just one damned moment when I could be with someone and not think of you, and I thought that I might find some kind of peaceful life with her.”  
  
His fingers curl into fists as his head drops low.  
  
“And then we…when you…you broke me!” His voice rises above a whisper and it takes several seconds for him to breathe and continue. “So instead of refusing the advances of Seam girls because they reminded me of you, I accepted them for that very reason. In every pair of gray eyes I saw yours. In even touch of their olive skin I couldn’t think of anything but that night. I thought if I could just get you out of my head I would be ready to move on again, but no matter how many, I couldn’t. That’s when I gave up and decided to move to another district.”  
  
I’m still angry, but now it fights for space inside me along with my guilt. I did use him. And I don't have any say in that part of his life.  
  
“You want to know how many? I didn’t have sex with any of them. I kissed them; I touched them, but none of them felt like you, smelled like you, and in the end I couldn’t even…” he stops and lets out a strangled cry that he’s barely able to keep soft enough not to wake Flower. “They would try to ‘help’ me, but it didn’t work. When I say you broke me that night, Katniss, I mean it in so many ways. I knew in my head that you were the only girl I ever wanted, and that night my body knew it too.”  
  
Peeta stands from the table and walks past me and out the door, but he does make sure it doesn’t slam behind him. It’s several minutes later and he doesn’t return. I find him sitting on his stairs looking out at the afternoon sun.  
  
The guilt in me has tamped down my anger. I haven’t given much thought to how that night affected him. I assumed he got what he wanted, a conquest from the Seam, and was unhappy that he couldn’t talk his way into another go ‘round, but his truths are starting to make more sense than mine. The idea that he wanted more than sex is starting to seem more possible.  
  
He’s slumped over, his elbows on his knees and his hands covering his face. I squeeze myself into the space next to him on the step. There’s one other pressing question about all of this that I have to ask. “You’re brother helped me, he defended me. Why?”  
  
Peeta’s head pops up and he swivels enough to look at me. My anger all but disappears when I see the moisture in his eyes. His expression is nothing but startled and confused. “How did he do that?”  
  
So I tell him, describing how his brother fought Alby and warned the lot of them not to bother Everdeens, and as I do, Peeta’s face transforms into something more fragile, vulnerable. His eyes shine bright before he turns away from me. “He did that, huh?”  
  
“Yeah, he did that.” I say looking down at my clasped hands on my lap because if I wanted to know why his brother would do that, it's clear Peeta doesn’t have the answer either.  
“Do you know why he would do something like that? I thought your family hates me…because of Flower…because we’re Seam.”  
  
“They don’t hate you,” he says, but then corrects himself quickly. “My father and brothers don’t hate you.”  
  
Even though the moment is tense and I’d rather be anywhere but here with Peeta, we find the dark humor in that and chuckle. It’s seconds before Peeta sobers and looks at me to explain. “We’re taught to believe those from the Seam are a certain way, and I guess because of the darker skin and hair, it’s easy to keep that divide alive and well.”  
  
“And you?” I ask, but the question feels too intimate, so I quickly add, “And your brothers, you know, with their relationships in the Seam. You’re father for being kind to us?”  
  
Peeta gives one soft chuckle at that. “My father had a best friend from the Seam. He said it changed the way he saw people from town and the Seam.” I’m surprised to hear this because I’ve never seen the baker pal around with someone from the Seam. “What happened to his best friend?” I spin through images of dead children from the games and assume he was one of them, probably dead before Peeta and I were born, so it takes me by surprise when he says, “His best friend married the woman he planned to marry.”  
  
I blink at that because the words don’t sink in quickly. In my mind’s eye, I try to picture a younger version of the baker with a Seam girl but something doesn’t quite fit. Still, his best friend was Seam so the girl had to be Seam too. “You’re father was in love with a Seam girl?”  
  
Peeta shakes his head. “A girl from town.”  
  
That’s odd. There’s only one other woman from town who lives in the Seam, but she’s a generation older than my mother and Mr. Mellark. It takes a while because I’m resisting the obvious, but there’s no way to avoid what the information adds up to. “My mother and father?”  
  
Peeta nods at that. “He told me our first day of school. Pointed to you and told me that he was going to marry your mother, but she ran away with a coal miner because when he sang, the birds fell silent. It wasn’t until recently that he told me a little more of the story, about how our fathers were best friends.”  
  
“Oh,” is all I can say because I’m having trouble accepting this information. My mother was to marry Mr. Mellark? My father was Mr. Mellark’s best friend?  
  
“I guess because our father didn’t feel the same way about the Seam as our mother, we had a choice,” he says at first, then shakes his head as though it’s not right. “I guess my brothers had a choice, because I didn’t. The moment I saw you, Seam and town didn’t make a difference anymore. And when I heard you sing…” He looks up at the sky and closes his eyes and I wonder if he’s listening to me sing again, and his head drops back down to face me. “…that day, when you sang the Valley Song, I knew I was a goner, just like your mother.”  
  
I see nothing but openness, honesty, and that vulnerability that comes with baring one’s soul and it catches me off guard. My chest tightens, and I struggle for each breath, especially as he lifts his hand to push back a stray strand of hair that’s been dangling over my forehead. His finger lingers against my skin and not only do I struggle for each breath, but I need more oxygen which forces me to part my lips and breathe through my mouth.  
  
It’s so slight, but I see him move forward hesitantly and the reaction from me is involuntary and immediate. I recoil until my back hits the wooden side post of the stairs. Although he’s right, I don’t have the right to judge him, I still hear Mattie’s friend in my head, I still count the faceless girls he was with, even it it wasn’t fully sex, but the pain in his eyes makes me wish the reaction wasn’t so harsh.  
  
“We should go,” I barely give myself time enough to say before I’m in the house and reaching for a still sleeping Flower. It’s earlier than I intended to leave, but I can’t stay here with him with what’s going on inside me. The jumbled thoughts and feelings are absolute chaos, and I think I may be going crazy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know a lot of you were curious, so there you have it. Peeta had sexual contact with many girls but not actual sex with all of them. I fashioned this after the boys I knew in high school who had experiences where girls would perform oral sex as a means of saying "hey, I like you." In a district with the real possibility of death before the age of 18 looming over their heads, I can see how this strange sense of what's acceptable could flourish. 
> 
> BTW, I wondered if it was okay to describe this in the notes but then remembered that the story is rated E and should take care of such things.


	14. The Odd One Out

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just to warn your guys, you may see other stories pop up from me. This doesn't mean I've abandoned this one. I intend to keep my 2 week schedule. It's just that lately I've been trying to force myself to stick with one story unless I come up with some one-shot. I always fear having the tone of two different stories bleed into each other. Well, I started having problems with this chapter (yup, again) so I gave in to the distractions, and my muse seemed to be delighted. I guess that's why she was boycotting. *sigh* Whatever feeds the muse, right?

Everything's ready. The cake is on the counter near the sink, out of immediate view for when Prim comes home. I made sure to make my trades early so that I could pick it up from the bakery and be home before her.  
  
That was harrowing enough, having to return to the bakery. I hadn’t set foot near it since I gave Mrs. Mellark a piece of my mind, and I hadn’t seen his older brother since his unusual and strangely welcome appearance Friday at the school.  
  
It wasn’t so bad, though. Surprisingly, Mrs. Mellark was nowhere to be found, even on such a busy weekday afternoon. And their middle son gave me nothing more than a casual glance before returning to his chores. Best of all, Mr. Mellark was at the door with the cake before I even had to knock. He seemed a bit preoccupied, but I paid no mind until he called out as I walked away, “We hope to see you soon.”  
  
A very strange thing for him to say, but then again, they probably haven’t had fresh meat since our last trade. I’m still not sure if I’m ready to begin trading with them again, but the cake box in my hands was a good start in that direction.  
  
It's my hope that the dessert will make Prim's birthday a little less gloomy. This time of year always leaves everyone in our district feeling on edge with fear and worry. A week and a half before the reaping can put a damper on anything.  
  
It’s sometime after four o’clock when we hear voices outside. Standing near the window, I peek out and see Prim standing at the bottom of the stairs with the Hawthorne children. She motions towards the house and Rory shakes his head causing his little sister to pout while his younger brother kicks his toe at the dirt.  
  
Prim waves goodbye before turning towards the house.  
  
“Happy birthday, Little Duck!” I greet her with a hug as soon as she enters. I was up and out the door before her and Flower this morning, so I didn't have the chance to do it earlier. She’s not surprised; I do this every year, but this year she doesn’t hug me back with the same enthusiasm.

“I asked the Hawthornes to come in," she starts the moment we pull away from each other, "but Rory wouldn’t. You know why. I told them that they could just have cake but—”  
  
“How did you know about the cake?” I interrupt her and she gives me a look as though it’s the silliest question I could ask.  
  
“You buy a cake for me every year, Katniss.” I turn to where our parents are at the table. My mother’s trying not to laugh while my father simply smiles while playing with Flower on his good leg.  
  
I decide to drop that topic and move on to the next. “You’ve never invited the Hawthornes before.”  
  
“They’ve been talking to me since Friday. You saw. I just thought that maybe…” she drifts off. For the first time, Prim has friends but the excitement made her forget one very important unspoken rule in the Seam: guests don’t eat their hosts food. Most in the Seam can barely feed their own family, so when a guest is fed, he or she owes that family, and no one in the Seam wants to owe anyone anything.  
  
I’m sure Rory Hawthorne understands this fully. There’s no doubt that he saw the invitation as a possible debt to avoid. Sure, the Hawthorne kids could have brought food to help feed everyone, a gesture that says “you’re not feeding everyone alone,” but with six mouths to feed, even with two miners and a budding part-time hunter, I doubt they have that kind of food to spare.

"Well, dinner's almost ready," my mother tells us but Prim shakes her head and drops her stack of schoolbooks on the table.

"I’m not hungry, yet. Can we have dinner after I do my homework?”  
  
I’m a little taken aback. Prim’s usually eager for her birthday dinner and more than ready to dive into the cake that I get her every year, as she pointed out.  
  
“Sure. That’s fine,” my mother says, now at the stove and stirring the pot before returning the lid to it. Although it's not like Prim at all, I let it go because it's Prim's birthday and she can have her dinner whenever she wants.  
  
We settle in quietly for the rest of the afternoon and into the early evening while Prim’s nose is deep in her books. My mother is busy sorting her herbs because this time of year is when the plants start to grow like wildfire. By the end of the season, we’re ducking from and bumping into bundles of dried herbs hanging from every rafter in the house.  
  
My father continues to bounce Flower on his leg, but she’s more interested in the doll than the ride. She holds out the doll and watches its hair sway with every bounce. “Cheese!” she belts out and it takes everything in me not to roll my eyes. Now that she knows Peeta is to be called “daddy,” Flower has assigned the doll with the name.  
  
Prim thinks it’s adorable—even now I can see her sneak a peek at Flower with a grin—and my parents think it’s funny. I think she should call it something that makes sense like “doll” or “dolly” but they say it’s fine so it must be. When it comes to Flower, I trust their instinct more than my own.  
  
Sometime close to seven o’clock, there’s a knock at the door and Prim drops her pencil on the table and runs to answer it.  
  
As washed and presentable as a miner can get in the Seam, Peeta stands at the other side of the door with a large tray in both hands. “Happy birthday, Prim,” he greets her and hands her the tray. She takes it and immediately lifts the cloth draped over it to see what underneath. "Oooh. I wonder what it could be!”  
  
“Cheesebuns,” Peeta says with a bright smile. “My…my father made them for everyone.” I find that a little hard to believe. Although the baker has always been kind to us Everdeens, he's never been that kind. Also, the baker made no mention of it when I saw him earlier. And even if it were true, why did he give them to Peeta instead of to me?  
  
“That was so kind of him,” my mother smiles sweetly and rushes in to take the tray from Prim who now with freed hands takes Peeta's hand in hers and leads him to the table. "Come in, come in," she tells him, offering him a seat near our father. Prim’s beaming as much as I’m scowling. I look around and notice that I’m the only one surprised by Peeta’s arrival or him bearing free pastries.  
  
“I’m so glad you could make it. For a while there, I didn’t think your were coming," Prim says.  
  
Peeta turns a light shade of pink before answering. “I didn’t want to come here straight from the mines.”  
  
“Well, we’re just about to have dinner,” she tells him which is a surprise to me because I thought she was doing her homework. It's then that it all sinks in. Doing her schoolwork first was her way of stalling for time without me knowing. I want answers from my sister, but no matter how I try to catch Prim’s attention, it’s no use. She’s beside Peeta, or near our mother who’s stirring the pot intently, or our father who’s balancing a squirming Flower. Prim continually moves from one spot to another until she rushes to the table and clears the books from it. I decide patience will work better in this situation. My sister and I will have a lengthy conversation about all of this...eventually. Where else is she going to sleep tonight?  
  
Flower starts to fuss on my father’s knee. It’s not smooth or graceful, but she manages to shimmy down his leg with the doll still in her hand and toddles over to Peeta. He doesn’t hesitate to kneel down and hold her face in his hands. Gently, he kisses her forehead but Flower doesn’t look happy about it. Her face scrunches and her lip protrudes and my breath catches in my chest. I wait for her to cry, some kind of protest that will set back what progress Peeta’s made with her, but she simply says to him with a determined frown, “Daddy! Cheese!”  
  
He looks around, trying to figure out what he did wrong, what she wants, but none of us know. His eyes slide over to the table with the tray of cheesebuns in the center of it, but Flower shoves the doll towards him and barks out, "Cheese!" The doll's legs and yarn hair sway until finally something occurs to him as though he forgot. “Oh, okay.” He leans forward, still on his knees, and kisses the doll on its forehead.  
  
It satisfies Flower, clutching the thing tightly in her arms and smiling from ear to ear. Peeta looks up and glances at everyone while quickly giving his explanation. "Delly used to make me kiss that doll all of the time when we were young. She said she didn't want her left out or something." It’s strange how he understands her so well in such a short time. I’ve known Flower all her life and that kind of connection just isn’t there. I don’t know why, but a prickle starts along the nape of my neck and then my ears, ending with my eyes. There’s no way of knowing why I have to fight off the tears, but I do as I go to help my mother with the plates as Prim stacks the schoolbooks on the chair for Flower.  
  
The last thing I see before I concentrate on dinner is Flower wrapping her arms around Peeta’s neck and him lifting her into his arms.  
  
“Are you going to be okay?” my mother asks me, her hushed voice is just enough so that those at the table can’t hear.  
  
“Did you know he was coming?” I ignore her question and give her one of my own.  
  
“Prim told us she was going to invite Peeta. She feels if he’s going to be Flower’s family, then he's ours as well. And your father and I agree with her.” She hands me a stack of dishes and turns back to the food.  
  
My mind blanks at the thought that my family has all but adopted Peeta without any thought as to how I feel about it. That feeling of betrayal worms it’s way back into me, especially when I turn and watch Peeta and my father talking, Flower on Peeta’s lap playing with her doll, and Prim standing near them, chiming in on their conversation every so often.  
  
It’s like Peeta has always been a part of the family, and that thought leaves me feeling…I don’t know what I’m feeling.

* * *

“I had to ask around to find the right house,” Prim laughs as we all sit at the table eating her birthday dinner. I try to pay more attention to feeding Flower than I do the conversation, but I can’t help but pick up how relaxed my sister's laughter sounds, how at ease she is with Peeta. I’m not sure what’s come over her. It was only days ago that she feared he would take Flower away from us.  
  
“You shouldn’t have gone through the trouble,” Peeta begins to the entire table but Prim promptly hushes him. “You’re family. You’re my niece’s father, and you and Katniss…” The words fade off and I’m frozen in place having just offered Flower a sliver of duck meat. No one says a word, but eyes are darting everywhere because finishing that sentence doesn’t end well. …that he and I…had sex? Had a baby together? Both are true, the proof is sitting on a stack of books between us. Although no matter how true those words are, it’s a conversation that's anything but light and casual and meant for a birthday dinner.  
  
“…you and Katniss,” she finishes, “will be raising my niece, of course.” After that, she clears her throat as though clearing away whatever it was she really wanted to say, and looks down at the remainder of her food. The tension is back in her voice and her body, but she’s not the only one. She tries to reduce the tension by adding, "Besides, we wouldn't have these delicious cheesebuns," and promptly shoving half the one she's holding into her mouth.  
  
“That’s all true,” my father agrees while eyeing me for a long moment, “very true.” He’s really agreeing to all of it, what was said and unsaid, and I know what he really wants to say, that I should’ve been the one to invite Peeta. The truth is that I didn’t want him here. All I wanted was a relaxed family gathering to celebrate my little sister’s birthday, but with Peeta here, it can't be anything but tense. Even now as the table grows quiet, my mind slips into thoughts of those girls again. Every inch of him that I catch a glimpse of, I wonder if it was an inch touched by an old girlfriend or one of the girls from the Seam. It’s so bad that I can’t even bear to look at him anymore.  
  
“It’s time for cake,” my mother announces and I dart out of my chair and to my mother’s side in a heartbeat. She gives me a look and shakes her head before opening the paper box it was sealed in. It was kind of Mr. Mellark to do this. Most times, cakes are carried out in the open on thick, paper trays, the same trays Peeta brought the cheesebuns on, whereas the paper boxes are reserved for those who could afford the extra protection.  
  
The cake is beautiful. White icing covering the whole thing with the most delicate pink flowers. Even my mother has to pause to admire the work of art. “Peeta, who did this? Your father’s good, but not this good.”  
  
I look at my mother while her attention is on Peeta. Since he told me the story about my parents and the baker, I’ve had trouble believing it, but how would she know enough to recognize the baker’s skill?  
  
“My father baked the cake, but I made the flowers last night, Mrs. Everdeen.”  
  
“That was very sweet of you,” she tells him as she walks back to the table with the cake out of the box and in hand. I follow behind her with my head down and left to my own thoughts. I’m the odd one out of my family, now, the one that hasn’t welcomed Peeta to the family. Even after their rough start, Flower now enjoys his company.  
  
The house is full of laughter and cake, everything I wanted for Prim’s birthday, except it’s Peeta who brings the mirth. My parents are at ease with him, Prim’s at ease with him. Even after their rough start, Flower’s at ease with him. The only one who isn’t, again the odd one out of my family, is me.  
  
I force a smile here and a nod there, but I can’t feel what they feel, so when Peeta announces that it’s time for him to leave, that’s when I perk up. My family, however, argues that it’s still early yet, but Peeta insists.  
  
“Katniss, walk him to the road,” my mother suggests. Surprisingly, it’s Peeta to protest before me.  
  
“That won’t be necessary, Mrs. Ev—” He doesn’t have time to finish that thought. My mother’s stance is clearer than any words: There will be no arguing on the matter.  
  
Peeta’s mouth snaps shut and a warm smile spreads across his face but it isn’t real. His eyes aren't as bright as they are with his genuine smiles.  
  
No sooner do we clear the steps of my house that Peeta turns to me and offers me a way out of this, telling me that I don’t have to walk him fully, just tell them that I did.  
  
“I’m out here. I might as well.”  
  
“Look, Katniss. I know what they, those people I thought were my friends, said on Friday upset you, and what I had to say about it didn’t help…” His head lowers and shakes while he mutters, “I’m just not sure why it bothers you so much.”  
  
But then he straightens up, squaring his shoulders and leveling his eyes to mine. “You don’t want me. I got that loud and clear, but I need for us to find some way to work together. I don’t want Flower to think we hate each other.” His brows scrunch, and I see Flower for a moment before his features slowly pull into something more fearful, which carries into his voice when he asks me, “Wait, do you hate me?”  
  
There are a lot of things I feel when it comes to Peeta Mellark. So many that I’m not sure about them all, but I know there’s one thing I don’t feel and that’s hatred. I don’t hate Peeta, not at all, and a word slips out that had been floating in and around the edges of my thoughts about him. “Never.”  
  
He blinks at that and stands silent for what feels like an eternity. He’s the first to snap out of whatever this moment is, when he asks, “Can we do this? Can we make this work?” For some reason I’m not sure what he means by that, and it takes a second to remember what he’s talking about. Can we work together for the sake of Flower.  
  
It’s up to me. All of his hopes hang on my answer. I think of him with all that he’s done so far just to be father to Flower. I think of Flower who can only benefit from having someone like him in her life. What other answer is there? My head feels heavy on my shoulders, but I manage a nod because we do have to find a way.  
  
“Can we…” he starts to ask me, but whatever it is lodges in his throat, so he clears it and starts again. “It may be too much to ask, but on Sunday, can we take Flower to visit my family?"  
  
My very first instinct is to run to the house, but I can’t do that. This is what I just agreed to seconds before, to work this out with him. I’d rather chew glass than go to the bakery, and on top of that with Flower, but they are her relatives and should have a chance to become family to her as well. I’d like to see his mother manage to swallow her hatred of the Seam long enough for that.  
  
It’s hard to breathe let alone talk, but I force out a breathy, “Okay.”  
  
Perhaps he sees the dread in my eyes, or in how tightly strung the muscles all over my body are. Either way, his smile is reserved and his excitement held in check. “Thank you, Katniss. I know you haven’t had the best experiences with them.”  
  
I nod easily at that but then add, “You’re father’s always been kind to us, and your brother did stand up for us.”  
  
A dry chuckle escapes him. “Yeah. The thing is that you’ve never really had a problem with my father or brothers.” He’s very right about that. It’s his mother that taints the thought of going to the bakery with Flower…and then I realize that we're also going with Peeta. My heart speeds up even more as I suddenly realize it will be the three of us, as a family, in town.  
  
“Thank you,” he says again, emphasizing his gratitude before turning and heading for the road. I was supposed to walk with him, but I’m drained and my legs feel like heavy logs. All I can do is watch him walk away and begin the count down until Sunday, the day Mrs. Mellark gets to call me a whore in front of my daughter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter doesn't seem like much but it was meant to show how Katniss's family is starting to accept Peeta whereas she's not there yet, leaving her to feel like the stranger to her own family. It also progresses the story towards the reaping and sets the stage for the three of them going to the bakery. It does all of this in such a low key way which was what was giving me a hard time writing it. 
> 
> If keeping my muse happy means I'm going to have to write more, then so be it.


	15. Crashing Down

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So it seems my muse has spoken. She wants her stories when she wants them. She doesn't care that I'd rather concentrate on one at a time. And if I do not heed her bidding, she will block all roads to happy writing. *sigh*
> 
> Don't get too used to this quick turnout. This chapter came fast and furious, but I skimped on editing a little because I'm dying to get to the next chapter...The Reaping. This means that I may have to make some adjustments to this chapter after I post the next one, but I figured you guys wouldn't mind.

It’s time for Flower to go to bed and Prim carries her into the bedroom as she always does. This time I follow her in. My mind is filled with questions, particularly why she had to invite Peeta. She could have invited him next year after we’ve all had time to adjust and get used to him being around, so that I could adjust. The truth is that I’m not sure I will ever be able to adjust.  
  
But standing there with the bedroom door at my back, the words don’t sound right in my head so I know they won’t if I were to say them aloud.  
  
“It was wrong of you to treat Peeta the way you did,” Prim says calmly as though she’s talking about the weather and not that my little sister is chastising me. She leaves and walks across the room to our chest of drawers. The smallest drawer on the top is reserved for Flower’s tiny things.  
  
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I tell her, folding my arms. “I barely said anything to him.”  
  
“Exactly!” The word shoots out of her and to me, emphasizing whatever point she’s making. The problem is that I still don’t understand what that point is. “He saw your reactions to having him here, talking to us, having dinner with us. I’m sure that was the reason why he left early.”  
  
“No one told me he was coming!”  
  
“And if we had, you would’ve argued against him coming and still treated him the same.” Prim’s calm voice is becoming harder, harsher while Flower’s head turns to follow the conversation between us.  
  
I stand near the bed with my mouth open to say something, but what can I say? Prim’s right. Even if they’d told me Peeta was invited, I would’ve argued. I would’ve treated him the same.  
  
“You were afraid that he would take Flower from us. Now, you’re worried about his feelings?” I ask her because I don’t understand how her opinion could change so quickly when it comes to someone who’s practically a stranger.  
  
“I already said why,” she huffs, slipping off Flower’s day clothes.  
  
“The real reason, Prim.”  
  
At this, she stops what she’s doing to rub at her temples in frustration. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”  
  
“Try me.”  
  
“He loves you.”  
  
A sound escapes my lips. It’s not quite a snort and not quite a chuckle but somewhere in between. Whatever it is, it tells Prim exactly what I’m feeling about that thought. Peeta’s told me this before, but I had a hard time believing it before learning about the laundry list of girls he’s dabbled with. Am I supposed to believe that I somehow stand out in his mind? That somehow a boy from town could fall in love with a girl from the Seam when there are more acceptable girls who I’m sure are smarter, prettier, more shapely than me.  
  
“I told you,” she mutters, going back to removing Flower’s day clothes.  
  
She did tell me that I wouldn’t believe her, but with what I know, how can I believe it? He’s from town and how many Seam girls did he go through? “He was with others, even from the Seam. What makes me so special compared to them?”  
  
“I’ve heard the rumors.” Prim turns to me, and looks me in the eye. Her blues flash an anger I haven’t seen there before. “That’s a question you should ask _him_. What I do know is that every time the two of you are in a room, the only thing he looks at more than Flower is you. He can't keep his eyes off of you. And there’s no mistaking what’s in his eyes, Katniss.” Prim lets out a noise that I can’t tell whether it’s from frustration or disgust, and then stands and shoves Flower’s night clothes into my folded arms. “Dress your daughter, Katniss.”  
  
Flower and I watch Prim leave the room and slam the door behind herself. My daughter’s eyes, Peeta’s blue eyes, land on me. They are filled with as much confusion as what’s rattling around inside me.

* * *

 

I came to town with a full game bag. Three ducks, a goose, five squirrels, a rabbit and a brimming pouch of strawberries. The ducks and goose were enough to settle the matter from last week in Cray’s eyes which takes a load off of my shoulders.  
  
Before going to the Hob, I turn the corner onto the road that leads to the mayor’s house. Alby’s at the steps, and he’s red faced and screaming with Madge at the door, holding onto it as though it’s the only thing keeping her upright.  
  
“You can’t do this!” he shouts so loud that I wonder why Mayor Undersee hasn’t come out to quiet the matter. “There’s something between us! I know you felt it too.”  
  
Madge stares through him as though she's not really aware that he’s there in front of her. Dark circles hang under her eyes and there’s a sickly, ashen color to her skin. I don’t think about what I'm doing as I continue to take those few steps closer to the house, even as Alby continues to yell and scream and throw a fit on the stairs of the mayor’s house. It’s so quick that he stalks up the stairs and bulls his way to Madge who doesn’t make a move to acknowledge him even now. I’m afraid that he’s going to hurt her, and in what looks to be the fragile condition that she’s in, my only thought is to stop him.  
  
“Alby!”  
  
He spins, his head turning left and right until he finds me down the stairs and to the right of the house. “Everdeen.”  
  
I can almost see the thoughts working in his head. How he’s desperate to turn his anger towards me, but the warning from Peeta’s brother shuts that thought down quickly. He’s seething, purple with his frustration and anger, but he says nothing more to me. He does turn back to Madge, but she’s still staring blankly ahead.  
  
Alby lets out a frustrated growl before stalking off and passes me with a bump. I ignore him, going straight to Madge. “Are you going to be okay?” I ask her, and she slowly lifts her head to look at me. Her pupils are dilated and her movements are sluggish.  
  
“Katniss?” she says my name as though she hadn’t seen me at all until this very moment.  
  
“What’s wrong, Madge?” I ask, and my answer is a few sniffles. Suddenly, she’s clinging to me, grabbing fistfuls of my shirt and crying into them.  
  
“I just couldn’t,” she says between sobs. “I couldn’t do it.”  
  
“Where’s your father?” I ask her, but she doesn’t answer my question. All she does is repeat the same words over and over: how she couldn’t…couldn’t do it. I don’t know what _it_ is, but I know that the mayor’s daughter can’t be seen out in the open like this and the mayor isn’t around to help her.  
  
I reach for her arm and tug it over my head and across my shoulders until she’s leaning most of her weight on me. She's practically boneless and dead weight as I close the front door with my foot and take her to her room. I’ve only been in her room a couple of times, so I struggle to remember where it is.  
  
After I finally find it, I take her to her bed where she crumples onto it like Flower’s doll and whimpers as I cover her with the sheet.  
  
“I just couldn’t, not even for my father…and my mother. My mother,” she wails. The sobs return as she curls herself into a ball in her bed.  I think she’s half sleep by the time I think it’s safe to leave her, and as I turn away, there are a couple of things on her nightstand that catch my eye.  
  
There’s an empty pouch next to a delicate porcelain tea cup that has nothing but the dregs of herbs left at the bottom. There’s also an empty syringe there. I can only guess that it’s morphling.  
  
“I couldn’t…” she murmurs as I leave her room. “I just couldn’t.” The words fade as she goes to sleep, and I close the door gently.

* * *

“Thank you for doing this,” Peeta says, closing the door to his house behind us.  
  
“They should have a chance to know Flower,” I tell him, nervously bouncing Flower in my arms. As soon as he joins us on the steps, Flower holds out her arms for him, and Peeta gladly takes her from me. She’s comfortably wedged in his arm and playing with Cheese, her doll, with one hand.  
  
There’s not a cloud in the sky for our walk to town. We barely say a word to each other and when we get to the front of the bakery, all of the courage I’ve built up since Prim’s birthday has completely left me.  
  
Peeta walks to the side door and opens it. “We’re here!” he calls out, and a moment later, the room is filled with people: Peeta’s brothers, his parents, and a girl who stands next to his eldest brother. Her lips curl at us as though she smells something unpleasant.  
  
“Katniss, we’re so glad you could make it here, with Flower,” Mr. Mellark says with a warm smile, it’s the smile that Peeta inherited from him, and that Flower inherited from Peeta. Because it’s on my mind and I’m so nervous, I blurt out, “Flower has your smile.”  
  
That makes the baker’s smile even brighter, and to prove my point, Peeta smiles which brings a smile to Flower’s face.  
  
“I don’t see the resemblance. Are you sure she’s yours?” his mother stands there with her arms folded and her eyes hard on her son.  
  
“Are you kidding,” the eldest son chokes. “Look at her. She’s the spitting image of Peeta. I just hope she grows out of that for her sake,” he says, trailing it with amused wink at his baby brother.  
  
“She’ll never be able to outgrow that Seam blood running through her,” his mother mutters and I feel the sting at my eyes and the twist in my belly. We weren’t here for a minute before his mother started in which doesn’t bode well for the rest of the visit.  
  
“I can’t believe she looks like she’s from town. You’d never know that she was just some Seam bra—” The girl doesn’t have the chance to finish her sentence. Peeta’s eldest brother grabs her by the arm and pulls her to the storefront. She squeaks at his reaction but doesn’t say anything more until they’re both behind the door. We can still hear her. “Well, your parents only have to wait until we’re married, then they’ll have a real grandchild.”  
  
I’m numb and staring at the door until Mrs. Mellark’s voice breaks through my thoughts. “It’s true. Elle will give us a real grandchild we can be proud of, that we won’t have to hide from the town.”  
  
That twist in my gut turns into a burn. She’s talking about Flower as though she’s not even in the room, as though my daughter is somehow less than whatever that town girl gives birth to. The burn ignites and I gather up the words I have ready for this woman, but another voice roars throughout the room. It’s Peeta, yelling. “What the fuck, mama!” His focus shifts to his father for a moment, “You promised me it wouldn’t be like this! And she can’t even control herself for one damned night!”    
  
“Peeta, not in front of—” his father starts timidly, but then Peeta’s older brother chimes in, “In front of…? The girl’s just been insulted by her own grandmother and you’re worried about curse words?“ Mr. Mellark lowers his head and shakes it sullenly muttering out an apology that only turns Mrs. Mellark’s attention to him.  
  
“This… _child_ …may not even be Peeta’s. That girl’s mother comes from town. That child could have gotten the hair and eyes from that side of the family, and then _she_ decided to blame some poor town boy, our boy, for her trouble. You, of all people, should know what they’re like, how you can’t trust them with anything. You called one of them friend and look what he did."  
  
Peeta and his brother say something to her, but I’ve lost track of the argument because I’m stunned. Peeta told me about his father and my parents, I heard it in my mother’s voice when she hinted at knowing the baker on Prim’s birthday. With Mrs. Mellark’s comment, the truth that I’ve been refusing to believe hits me hard. Slowly I hear them again, the two sons arguing with their mother, their father quiet with his head still down in defeat.  
  
“You don’t want to be a part of your granddaughter’s life, then to hell with you,” Peeta says, holding Flower tightly in his arm and using his free hand to reach for my shoulder. He doesn’t pull me the way his brother pulled his fiancee, but it’s a nudge to follow him out the side door.  
  
“Wait!” comes a booming voice that makes us both stop in our tracks. Flower’s lip is protruding, but she hasn’t started crying, yet. She finds comfort in curling into Peeta’s body with her face pressed against his chest.  
  
Peeta’s parents have a staring match for a long while until Mr. Mellark breaks the silence. His voice is calm, eerily so. “I want to see my first grandchild. If you can’t handle that, then go to the front and take care of the customers.”  
  
“But—” she starts to argue, and then closes her mouth shut. There’s something behind the baker’s eyes that I’ve never seen before, but Mrs. Mellark sure recognizes it. Her eyes slip to Peeta and Flower before she stalks out of the room without a word.  
  
Mr. Mellark turns to us, to me, and offers an apology. “I’m so sorry about that, Katniss. That won’t happen again.” I barely find the strength to nod because it’s all been used up. I’m confused about Mr. Mellark and my parents, about what just happened between Mr. and Mrs. Mellark, about Peeta’s brothers, and as always I’m confused about Peeta.  
  
“Do you think you could stay? Just for a little bit?”  
  
Peeta turns to me and whispers, “It’s completely up to you, Katniss. We would all understand if you never wanted to come here again.” In his eyes, it’s the truth. It’s his father’s eyes, the pair that look just like his, that hold me in place instead of continuing out the door and to the road home. There’s so much hope there, it’s bordering on desperation. Peeta's brother, however, doesn’t seem to care either way.  
  
It’s when I look at Flower with the doll clutched tightly, the top of its head tucked under her chin as she clings close to Peeta, it’s hard to ignore the connection these three have. I know Mr. Mellark is a kind man, and he passed that kindness down to his son, who I hope had passed it down to Flower. In any case, she should know where it came from, the source of that kindness and good nature, so I find it in me to nod again.  
  
“Thank you,” Mr. Mellark gushes, holding my shoulders before drawing me in for an awkward hug. His gratitude makes me uncomfortable.  
  
“Can I hold her?” The man can’t seem to figure out who to ask, me or Peeta, so he looks from one to the other. I shrug and Peeta hands Flower over to him carefully.  
  
Flower looks at her grandfather, wide eyed and trying to figure out if she doesn’t mind being in his arms. When he gives her a smile, his eyes glistening, and kisses Cheese’s yarn hair, it’s official that they can be friends.  
  
Peeta’s older brother walks out of the room and through the side door. The two remaining Mellark men don't notice because they're too busy fawning over Flower who’s soaking up the attention, so I slip out unnoticed to follow him outside.  
  
He sits on the stairs of the side door and leans forward, resting on his arms with his eyes focused beyond the yard.  
  
“I didn’t have the opportunity to thank you for Friday. Thank you,” I say, leaning on the banister of the outside stairs. He swivels his body to see me standing behind him then returns his focus forward.  
  
“It wasn’t for you.”  
  
“Then why did you do it?” I ask. “Why did you defend me?”  
  
“Peeta would have if he were there.”  
  
“But that doesn’t explain why _you_ did.”  
  
The middle Mellark son sighs heavily and scrubs at his face. At first, I don’t think I’m going to get my answer, but then he starts talking again. “You know, our district makes it clear who we’re supposed to love and who we’re not supposed to love. The consequences for anything we do outside of that is more than most of us can bear.”  
  
He drops his gaze to the wood of the last stair. “Our baby brother has thought of nothing but you for as long as any of us can remember, but we knew nothing could come of it because he’s from town and you’re from the Seam.” He drops his head down. “He was like us, doing what he was expected to do. He had his girlfriends from town and we thought that was that, he was going to be a good little town boy and play by the rules like us. There were times when we worried for him, those times when he cried out for you in his sleep. Then one day, he tells us about his daughter, with _you_ and none of those expectations meant a damn thing to him anymore. He did what none of us had the courage to do. I envy that about him. I wish I had the courage to love who I want and the district be damned.”  
  
His head lifts and his eyes meet mine. “My baby brother had the courage to choose this life, to choose you, so if I have to kick a few dumb asses to make his life a little less difficult, then I’ll do it.”  
  
He doesn’t say another word as he lifts himself from the stair and continues down them and across the yard.  
  
I go back inside to find the eldest Mellark son holding Flower while Peeta and their father talk about something. It’s hard to miss the way Peeta’s brother stares at Flower playing with her doll, and I have to wonder if he wonders what if. What if he had the same courage to leave town and move into the Seam and become a miner for the woman he loved.  
  
That thought right there freezes me, hits me hard. My eyes slowly work their way to where Peeta sits. He’s talking to his father, but his eyes glance my way as though he’s always aware of my presence. “ _He can’t keep his eyes off of you_ ,” Prim had said. “ _He loves you._ "  
  
For the first time, I believe it. I really believe it.  
  
It’s as though I see the world with new eyes. I take a seat at the table, but my eyes are on Peeta. My thoughts are replaying Peeta's words, his brother's words, and Prim's words like videos on the screens. Peeta’s eldest brother hands Flower back to his father and leans in to me. “I’m sorry about my fiancee. She’s from town through and through.” The rest he mutters, and I don’t think I was meant to hear: “Just like mama wanted.”  
  
“Well,” his father says, standing up from his chair, “I think it’s time for the cutest little girl in all of District Twelve to have a cookie.”  
  
I freeze and Peeta’s eyes round. “What about mama and the store?”  
  
His father lets out a sound that dismisses our fear. All we can do is follow behind because Mr. Mellark leaves the room and enters the bakery with a confidence we can't argue with. The eldest Mellark son follows us as well. The store has some customers milling about, but they all stop what they’re doing, including Peeta’s mother and his soon-to-be sister-in-law.  
  
All eyes are on his father and our daughter.  
  
“Why did you bring her out here?” his mother doesn't hesitate to make a tense situation worse.  
  
“I’m getting my granddaughter a cookie,” he tells her calmly, making his way over to the dessert counter. He ignores her as he picks the largest cookie there, but I can’t ignore the venom spilling out of her mouth.  
  
One by one, the customers leave the bakery, casting lingering glances to get their eyefuls before they leave.  
  
“You!” she stalks up to Peeta, pointing her finger at him. “Why couldn’t you have gotten a town girl pregnant. At least then there wouldn’t be a problem marrying her and there wouldn’t be any shame in this mess.” She sighs, “You know what people say about you?”  
  
“I don’t give a rat's ass what people say about me, mama,” Peeta answers. “I’m proud that I have a beautiful baby girl…from the Seam…with a Seam girl. How Katniss and I decide to raise her is up to us. If you can’t live with that, then don’t be a part of her life.”  
  
For a long while, his mother locks her eyes to his, but when they break away, the woman unfolds her arms and walks out of the bakery without another word.  
  
“Give her time,” his father says to him but Peeta’s fuming. I can almost see heat rising off of his skin like smoke. “I don’t want to give her time. She can take that time and…”  
  
Peeta looks at Flower who’s full attention is on him which is the only reason why he decides to stop speaking.

* * *

Peeta walks us home. He’s carrying an exhausted Flower, and I’m carrying a paper bag full of cheesebuns. The moment Peeta told his father that I loved them, that my family loved them for Prim’s birthday, the man started to fill the bag to the brim against my protests.  
  
Gently, he hands our daughter over to me, her head falls into the crook of my neck. He doesn’t turn to go to the road, and his head drops down so that he can look at the ground or up at the darkening sky or anything but me. “It was a nice visit…after my mother left.”  
  
I nod and offer him an easy smile at that. After his mother left for good, it was a pleasant visit.  
  
“Katniss,” he says my name breathy as he takes a step closer. My heart thumps in my chest and my stomach twists with excitement. When I think of those other girls, now, they’re drowned out by Prim’s words, by his brother’s words. He loves _me_. What I feel for him is not as clear, but what I do know is that I want him to kiss me. I want to find out where these feelings will lead me if I take this step.  
  
Peeta shyly looks up from the ground and levels his eyes to mine. He glides a finger over the soft skin of Flower’s cheek before taking another step closer. “Katniss, do you think…”  
  
I take a step closer, eager to hear his next words.  
  
“Do you think it’s possible…”  
  
At this very moment, I think anything is possible because we live in a world where a boy from town really does fall in love with a girl from the Seam. I’m already nodding to a question I haven’t fully heard which draws out a brighter smile from him. “Do you think we could go the Justice Building and officially acknowledge her as my daughter?”  
  
I blink because it’s hard to reconcile what he actually said with what I’d expected, even though I’m not fully sure what I expected. He must misread my confusion for something else etched on my face because he starts to stammer. “I…I really want everyone to know that she’s my daughter too. No more questions. No more rumors.”  
  
The heat starts at the nape of my neck and works it way up. That prickle behind my eyes is the telltale sign that I might cry if I don’t hurry and control what I’m feeling. The problem is that I have no idea what I’m feeling. I mumble a curt, “Sure,” before turning and running into my house because I’m a second away from crying in front of him.


	16. The Reaping

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter ended up being over 5000 words. That's well over the point where I usually split it into two chapters, but this can't be split. I promised you guys the reaping, and here you go.

Each year, the feel of the district changes each day closer to the reaping. All of the fears we carry surface more than ever. All of our regrets are magnified until they weigh us down under a mountain of what-if’s.  
  
It’s why everyone in town barely says a word to each other. Most conversations held are because they have to be for trade or something equally important. It’s why even Mr. Mellark doesn’t offer a hint of a smile as we trade for two squirrels. He does ask about Flower and slips a cookie in with the two stale loaves, but I see the way his eyes lower and his shoulders slump. It doesn’t take much to know what’s on his mind, that he has two sons still reaping age and a granddaughter a few years away from it.  
  
So when Gale Hawthorne tromps down the street and nearly knocks me down, I don’t take it personally. The impact startles him from his thoughts enough to turn and give me a distracted apology before continuing towards the road that leads to the Seam. What does surprise me is that he’s in town during the week. Most miners choose not to go into town after work, and certainly not the week of the reaping, but he’s a hunter. If he’d caught something large, it takes precious time to negotiate the best trades for something like that.  
  
My next stop is the peacekeepers’ barracks. I had the luck of snagging a big, fat goose early in the week. If I were less honorable, I could have easily not given the head peacekeeper anything for the week. Friday, the day of the reaping, marks the end of school and the end of my dependence on his protection, and I’m not expected to give him his due until the end of the week, this weekend.  
  
But I am honorable, or at least I’d like to think so. Not to mention, the last thing anyone would ever want to do is anger the head peacekeeper.  
  
Darius is standing outside of the center building with several other peacekeepers. Their eyes slide over my entire body, which he catches immediately. “You’d better go inside, Katniss,” he says to me, nodding in the direction of the building where Cray is undoubtedly in his office.  
  
And he is. As soon as he sees me, his lips curl into a smile, but it looks more like he’s pouting. “Katniss. You’re here early.”  
  
I nod and dip my hand into my forage bag. The goose weighs a ton and the muscles in my arm strain to lift it out of the bag and display it to the man sitting behind his desk.  
  
His eyes round and his mouth hangs open. When he finally regains his composure, he whistles. “I have to say, that’s one hell of a parting gift,” he says to me, rounding his desk so that he can take the bird.  
  
“I guess this is it,” I tell him as he happily appraises the bird. His attention shifts to me slowly. “I’m really going to miss seeing you every week,” he says and his free hand comes close to my face. It’s instinctual the way I flinch back from him, and I fear that I may have offended him, but he gives me a smile. “But a deal’s a deal,” he says with one nod that tells me all I need to know. The agreement is done, it’s finally done. I’m no longer beholden to the man.  
  
I’m smiling as I leave the barracks and Darius and the other peacekeepers. I’m in a good mood despite the reaping looming over my head as well as Prim’s.

* * *

That good feeling I had leaving the barracks doesn’t last long. Thoughts about going to the Justice Building with Peeta and Flower fill me with dread. I don’t want to go, to parade ourselves in front of the district so that they can stare and talk. If only we could do this without their prying eyes and their judgments. If only we could keep this between us.  
  
But Peeta wants no questions about Flower as his daughter. For everyone in the district to know without a doubt that he is her father would make him so happy. She is his world; I see it in the way he holds her as though she is the most precious thing in the world to him, the way he looks at her as though there is nothing more important to him.  
  
In my mind, I can see that look on his face, and I freeze in mid-step as I realize that he has looked at someone other than Flower like that. Me.  
  
I saw it during the visit with his family, Sunday. I saw it whenever I stopped by the bakery to trade over the years. I saw it that night when we were sixteen, and I drank wine with Madge at the slag heap.  
  
My chest heaves for each breath as the full weight of what he feels for me sinks in deeper. It’s more than sex, more than a passing interest, spanning years.  
  
It’s a struggle to get home. My entire body feels weighed down and each step is a struggle, but I make it. I can see my home from the road and see Prim sitting on the bottom step, but there’s something not right about her. There's the blond hair in soft waves, but this girl doesn't have Prim's skinny little arms and the way she sits tells me it couldn’t possibly be Prim.  
  
She turns to face the road, which gives me a clear view of her face. Madge doesn’t move a muscle until I’m standing next to her, and it takes time for her to look up to meet my eyes. “Your mother said I could wait for you, but I didn’t want to be a bother inside,” she says.  
  
I’m sure being stuck inside the house during the ever warming days helped her decision. Still, I nod and have a seat next to her. There’s no way around it. I’m curious about it all: why she was taking morphling, why Alby was the way he was at her doorstep, why her father hadn’t come to shoo the irate boy away. I’d love to know these things, but I won’t force the issue. I’ll give Madge the same courtesy she’d given me when it came to Peeta and Flower.  
  
Madge’s gaze remains directed at the ground or her feet. It’s hard to tell.  
  
“I’m sorry for the other day,” she says, folding her hands into her lap and they have her full attention now. “I…I…” she tries to say something but I have no idea what. Finally, she gives me clues. “Your mother…she gave me…” she starts but can’t get the words out. In the end, she mutters, frustrated with herself, “I thought this would be easier. You would understand more than anyone else.”  
  
I remember the tea cup next to the morphling on her nightstand. Although not as well versed in herbal remedies, I know what herbs look like fresh and dried and boiled down. I recognized the remnants left at the bottom of the cup, the same combination of herbs Prim begged me not to take almost two years ago.  
  
“Of course I understand,” I offer because it’s true. The only question I have slips out of my mouth before I can stop it, and I feel ashamed of myself. The last thing I wanted to do was pry.  
  
“So that’s why Alby was so upset?”  
  
Madge uses the tip of her shoes to draw a circle in the dirt. “He asked me to marry him,” she says, “just as I’d…expected.” There’s a long pause, but then Madge adds quietly, similar words she’d spoke over and over that day, “but I couldn’t.”  
  
“Alby’s considered a catch even though his mother’s from the Seam,” I tell her, watching for her reaction. Although I don’t want to pry, I do want to know where Madge stands. Even though Alby’s from a respectable merchant family and most from town would overlook half his parentage, there are some like Peeta’s mother and his future sister-in-law that wouldn’t. Those people hold the difference between town and Seam so deep in their hearts that’s it’s wholly a part of them, and I have to wonder if Madge is one of them.  
  
She shakes her head, her blue eyes wide and practically bulging, horrified by my words. There are tears welling in them. A few seconds later she's chuckling mirthlessly and says to herself, “The Seam.” She wipes her eyes and after one deep breath, Madge seems to regain her resolve. “It wasn’t his.”  
  
I’m shocked at this and it must show in my face the way Madge studies my reaction, leveling her eyes to mine. “I was desperate, Katniss. I was going to pretend that he was the father. It was the only reason why I was interested in him.”  
  
“But…but why?” I sputter. There are so many questions going through my mind that not prying has been buried under them. Why would she not try to marry the real father instead of choosing Alby who's shown his tendency to be violent? Was the father of her baby worse? The questions leave me concerned for Madge and her unhealthy choices in men.  
  
“I figured with Alby it wouldn’t matter if the baby had darker skin…or gray eyes…or darker hair…” she explains shyly, although not able to come right out and say it. She doesn’t have to with those hints.  
  
“The father was Seam?”  
  
After nervously looking around us, assuring herself that no one was around to hear my question, she nods. “If I had a baby that looked like that with anyone other than Alby, do you know what would happen?”  
  
I do. I’m one generation from knowing exactly what happens when a woman from town has a baby with a man from the Seam. She’s no longer welcome in town. Her family’s shamed and ridiculed. There would be no where else to go but the Seam where she would be unwelcome as well. Through my shock, I still manage to nod and whisper, “My mother.”  
  
It’s surprising when she shakes her head at that. “Worse. I wish it were only about me, then the choice would’ve been easier. I lu…” She stops herself there, taking a shaky breath before deciding what to say next. “I would’ve been okay living in the Seam.” She half-heartedly shrugs, “At least I’d have one friend here,” she smiles at me, “which is more than what your mother had.”  
  
I’m curious about how Madge knew this detail about my mother, but I push it aside for the moment as Madge continues.  
  
“If I’d left for the Seam, the town would’ve called for my father’s resignation as mayor. Without that position, he wouldn’t have access to the morphling my mother needs.” Her voice cracks at that. “It was either marry Alby or drink the tea. I just couldn’t…with Alby.”  
  
Still trying to absorb all that she’s told me, that is the one thing I can understand fully.  
  
“So when my father left for the Capitol, for the annual gathering of the district mayors, I drank the tea. and I took one of my mother’s syringes to boot.” Madge looks away, but I can see her eyes blinking rapidly. “It was the wrong time for Alby to come by. The morphling didn’t make my refusal gentler, the way I'd intended.”  
  
Somehow, I don’t think any refusal of Alby would’ve been taken well.  
  
Madge sits there on my step looking as vulnerable and defeated as anyone could. It’s not in my nature, more in Prim’s, but I reach out my arms and hold her. Madge releases quiet sobs onto my shoulder as she holds on to me tightly.

* * *

I sit and wait on the steps of Peeta’s house. He’ll be home any minute, but I didn’t think it could wait. As soon as Madge left, I thought of Peeta, of how he wants nothing more than to be a father to a little Seam girl. He was even willing to give up a comfortable life in town to work in the mines, work that’s guaranteed to shorten his life by years.  
  
This thought is punctuated by the stream of coal dusted miners pouring into the rows of shabby houses. One of them is Peeta judging by the blond hair that peeks through the layers of black dust.  
  
“Katniss?” he questions as though he can’t trust his weary eyes.  
  
“Yeah,” I say, standing up from the step to allow him room. He passes me but keeps turning back as though expecting me to disappear. “I spoke with my parents. We could go to the Justice Building early Friday morning, before they close for the reaping. You won’t have to go to the mines and we just thought…I just thought you’d want to make things official before...”  
  
Peeta doesn’t move for a long while which makes me start to believe I was very wrong. It’s not until he says softly, “Make it official before the reaping?” that I exhale my long held breath and nod. I imagine the fear he had, that he might be reaped before ever having the opportunity to make those changes to the district rolls. That he could die as our district’s two tributes do every year without making it official that she is his daughter. The difference means so little to the country or even the district, but it means so much to him.  
  
“Thank you,” he’s barely able to say with the way his voice shakes as much as his hands. I offer him a smile that's genuine and turn down the stairs right before Peeta turns toward his door. For the first time I’m not conflicted or confused when it comes to Peeta and Flower.

* * *

My mother stands in the center of the wide, arching hallway holding Flower in her arms while Peeta tells the woman with his chest puffed and his shoulders square that the four of us are here to change Flower’s parents in the rolls. To look at him, you’d never guess that we’re only hours away from our last reaping.  
  
The woman behind the desk passes a sour look from Peeta to me to Flower over and over again before slowly turning away and digging into a drawer. She’s from town, the clothier’s sister, I think.  
  
“Slip your finger in here,” she says to my mother. Peeta takes Flower as she gnaws on her doll, her eyes wide and curious and absorbing everything around her.  
  
There’s a snapping sound and my mother winces before pulling her finger free from the contraption, then lifts it to her lips to soothe the sting. The woman clicks a few buttons and my mother and father’s pictures appear side by side on the screen. They are young in them, couldn’t be much older than Peeta and me. Probably taken when they were married.  
  
A few seconds later, my picture appears underneath them. It was taken during a reaping. I’m wearing my mother’s dress so it could have been one or two years ago. My picture slides to the left to make room for Prim’s picture. Even under the circumstances of the day and when the picture was taken, I have to smile because I can see the way the back of her shirt has slipped out of her skirt. My little duck.  
  
Her picture slides to the left to make room for Flower’s picture. She's only a couple of weeks old in it with her platinum tufts of hair that have long since darkened. It was clearly when we brought her to the Justice Building to register her birth.

Peeta's entranced by it, his eyes shifting from one year old to practically newborn Flower over and over. He moves closer to it to get a better look at the moment captured in time reminding him of what he missed…reminding me of what he missed.  
  
The woman at the desk clears her throat, drawing our attention back to her. It’s only then that I realize that as Peeta stared at the picture, as I watched him yearn for something he’ll never get, my mother was watching me carefully.  
  
“Place the child’s pointer finger inside,” the woman behind the desk says. Peeta approaches her and takes Flower’s finger. She doesn’t fight, trusting him completely which is why he withdraws quickly. “I can’t do it. It’ll hurt her.” My mother gives Peeta a sympathetic smile before taking Flower in her arms and separating her tiny finger so that it will go into the device. If nothing else, my mother has experience with getting people through temporary pain for a desired outcome: setting bones and stitching wounds.  
  
There’s another snapping sound and Flower howls. Big, fat tears well in her eyes and drop down because they’re too heavy to trickle. While my mother tries to console her, Peeta rushes in to nuzzle his head to hers, hoping to add more comfort. It does comfort her. “Daddy,” she cries out, lips trembling, with one hand holding her doll close to her chest while the other reaches out for Peeta. My mother shakes her head and whispers, “Not yet.”  
  
When I look back on the screen, my parents pictures have disappeared as well as mine and Prim’s, leaving Flower’s in the center. “You’re the mother?” the woman asks me as though she doesn’t already know. She lives in our district which means she knows full and well that I am, but I nod anyway.  
  
“Place your finger inside,” she says. I do it and when the snapping sound comes, so does the sharp sting that makes me hiss and reflexively pull my finger back. Immediately, my picture returns above Flower’s.  
  
“Now you,” she says to Peeta with less patience. His focus is on Flower who’s still crying for him, so when the snap comes, it drags him away from her to his finger. He mutters a curse and places his finger to his lips just as my mother had done.  His picture comes up next to mine above Flower’s. It’s during the reaping last year when he wore the green tinted shirt and dark brown slacks.  
  
“Do you want to change the child’s last name?” the woman says, eyeing me and Peeta. Peeta shrugs when he looks at me.  
  
“I couldn’t care less what her name is,” he says as the woman continues to tap away at the buttons and out pops a piece of paper that she hands to us before Peeta can finish his sentence, “because she’s officially my daughter now no matter what her name is.”  He takes the paper and reads the only three lines on it over and over again. Meanwhile I look up to catch the three pictures of us still on the screen. There’s a word that struggles to surface no matter how hard I try to push it out of my head: family.  
  
I’m pulled from my own thoughts by Peeta’s strong arms wrapped around me tightly. “Thank you so much for this, Katniss,” he whispers to me. “She’s mine. She’s really mine.” And then it happens. In his excitement, his lips press again my cheek and the smell of him explodes in my nose. The warmth of him burns where we touch and shoots outward. My heart is nothing more than a flutter and I can’t breathe. I’ve had the same symptoms while fending off a particularly aggressive bobcat, but unlike that time, I want more. Even as he pulls away, it takes all of me to fight the desire to hold him in place so that I can inhale deeply a few more times.  
  
“Sorry,” he says pulling away from me, his eyes looking everywhere else but at me, “I got carried away.” I don’t have the time to give him the shrug my cowardly self is preparing to give—as though it meant nothing when in fact I want nothing more than to pull him back to me—before he hands me the paper and turns his full attention to my mother and Flower.  
  
Flower practically leaps into his arms.  
  
I read the paper as Peeta gingerly kisses Flower’s wounded finger.  
  
_Summary of changes: Mother of Flower Everdeen…Katniss Everdeen. Father of Flower Everdeen…Peeta Mellark._

* * *

It’s several minutes before two in the afternoon when we make it back to town. Peeta stayed with us, his time divided between staring at that piece of paper in awe and playing with Flower and her doll.  
  
My father doesn’t have to come to town for the reaping, his disabilities are considered enough to exempt him from mandatory viewing, but he insists regardless. The reaping after the mining accident, after he finally accepted the changes his injuries brought was when he told us that he wouldn’t be stuck in the house if one of his girls is taken from him, that he won’t let them take his last goodbye as well.  
  
So he finds the strength to walk the distance between our house and town with nothing but a crutch while my mother stays near him just in case he has trouble with his balance.  
  
Peeta holds Flower and points to some thick, fluffy clouds rolling in. To look at the two of them, no one would ever know that it’s reaping day.  
  
“It was good that you went to the Justice Building earlier,” Prim whispers, tearing my attention from them to her. She glances in their direction before looking at me again.    
  
“Who knows what could happen today. It had to be done,” I say, but it comes out a little defensively. Prim quickly holds up her hands, “I’m not arguing that. It was a good thing you did for him, for both of them.”  
  
“You’re not afraid that he’ll try to take Flower away from us now that he’s officially her father?”  
  
Prim’s facing forward, but her eyes cast a side glance towards me and I think I see a hint of a grin on her face. “He’s not going anywhere, Katniss.”  
  
The closer we get to town, the more people there are standing around. Voices aren’t raised more than a normal level, but there are so many conversations at once that it becomes a blanket of sound that won’t allow for whispers. It’s the reason why I won’t ask Prim what she meant by that. It had to do with me, Peeta, and Flower, and I’d rather not have a conversation where anyone could hear to offer more for the gossip mill.  
  
We stop at where the registration line ends. Peeta hands Flower to my mother and lingers there for a long moment looking at her before kissing her forehead and joining the line. I can only see the back of him, but even from this angle it’s hard for him to hide wiping at his eyes with his forearms.  
  
Prim gives our parents a hug before pressing her forehead to Flower’s. “You’re going to be a good girl,” she says and Flower bobs her head high up and down low over and over. “We’ll be back before you know it,” she says to Flower and takes a few steps back.  
  
It’s my turn. I don’t know what to say in these moments. This could be my last reaping or my death. I rush into my father’s arm and hold him tightly. Each year holding him gives me strength, reminds me of how glad I am that he survived the explosion in the mines because I don’t know what I would’ve done without my father.  
  
His arms squeezes around me but then when it loosens, I know our goodbye is said and done and I need to move on.  
  
My mother bounces Flower in her arms as we takes steps towards each other. “You’ll be fine,” she says, but it sounds more of a reassurance for herself than me. We kiss each other’s cheek, and then I kiss the crown of Flower’s head and glide my finger against her round cheek.  
  
She giggles at that, bringing the doll’s arm up to her mouth. The tears are starting to form, I can feel them building, but it’s not until Prim and I enter the line and Flower calls out, “Mama,” that there’s no stopping them. We’ve been teaching her to call me that, and sometimes she’ll say it, but it’s more of a game to her. This is the first time she’s said it calling for me.  
  
I’m bent over, sobbing loudly as everyone around glances my way. They don’t stare, though. They at least give me that courtesy.  
  
Prim wraps one arm around me and rubs my arm with her free hand. It’s soothing, but just barely. I look up and catch Peeta looking back at us. His blue eyes are rimmed red.  
  
We make it to the table where they scan our blood like they did in the Justice Building this morning. Prim slips her finger into the tiny box and hisses. Because of the din, we can’t hear the snapping sound it makes. The woman behind the table points to the gathering of fourteen year olds. Prim goes to join them, but not before I’ve had a chance to hug her tightly. We’ll make it through this year’s reaping…I have to believe that we will.  
  
I watch her walk away from me, but the woman behind the table grows impatient and pats with her hand the area close to me. The bearest sound and movement catch my attention that refocuses on my turn in the process.  
  
My right pointer finger has already been pricked, so I offer my left this time. The woman points to the gathered eighteen year olds at the front. Peeta’s already there staying as far away from those he used to call his friends. I squeeze myself in, taking a spot near Madge who's wearing a fine dress for the day. It’s elegant and makes my mother’s hand-me-down I’m wearing look like a rag.  
  
There’s no doubt that she notices my condition: swollen nose, puffy face, red eyes, but to her credit, the only thing Madge gives me is a nod to acknowledge my arrival. She doesn’t pry which is what I like most about her.  
  
She is distracted, though. Her eyes constantly scan the crowds forming around us.  
  
I look back at the younger kids gathered. Prim’s group is too far back, but I think I see the second eldest Hawthorne boy in the group of sixteen year olds. He nods to the crowd and I follow his eyes to the Hawthorne family standing together. Mr. and Mrs. Hawthorne stand with their daughter, Posy, between them. Their eldest son stands beside his father, having aged out of the reaping last year, I think.  
  
The ceremony begins as it does every year with the history of Panem, the antics of our only living victor, the drunk who can barely keep himself upright in his chair, and Effie Trinket’s click clack across the stage to the glass bowls filled with paper slips, each carrying the name of one of us hoping against hope that we or a loved one won’t be chosen.  
  
Effie purses her ruby red lips against the pasty white powdered face in anticipation, swirling her fingers to draw out the suspense. She takes one from the bowl and unfolds it. Her eyes scan the people around the stage and at the cameras for a moment. As District Twelve’s escort, she has so few moments to shine in the spotlight because we don’t have victors. Our last victor was over twenty-five years ago and is now slouched on the stage stinking drunk and yawning so loudly that we can hear him off stage without a microphone.  
  
“Louise Darbis,” Effie announces, her eyes looking up and down the groups of children separated by age. There’s a collective exhale from my chest and I hear it from those around me as well. It’s over for us. At least for us girls. We’re free from reapings for the rest of our lives. I have the added relief of knowing Prim’s safe for one more year.  
  
A girl from the sixteen year olds separates herself and walks mechanically towards the stage. There’s a woman screaming in the crowd, and it’s easy to spot her because she’s the one with her arms outstretched and a man I presume is her husband holding her back by the waist. It’s the same woman who was behind the desk in the Justice Building this morning.  
  
It’s unusual for someone from town to be selected. Not unheard of, but unusual. Effie’s already onto the glass bowl filled with the names of eligible boys for the reaping while my mind wanders to what I might hunt in celebration of my family being relatively safe for one more year. So I don’t experience Effie’s drawing out the moment, but when she says the name, her voice seeps into my skin, my bones until I’m shaking all over.  
  
“Peeta Me—” is all I hear before all starts to go dark. There are hushed murmurs around me, hands helping to keep me upright. Kids faint from standing too long or from having a loved one taken from them in the reaping. There’s very little camaraderie in our district for those not family or trusted friends, but we do help keep each other from collapsing.  
  
Madge is the first face I can make out in my tear-blurred vision. She looks at me curiously as though she can't understand why I'm upset. I want to yell at her that I have every right. That Peeta is the father of my daughter, that he is a good and kind person. I want to shout out to all of Panem that it isn’t fair that he’s going to be taken from us…from me.  
  
My heart’s hammering and I can’t seem to get enough air no matter how deep I breathe. I just want him safe…with me. There are so many things I'm feeling that I've always known were there, building, but I never allowed myself to speak them, not even think them. And now, he was going to die thinking I could barely tolerate him when in fact there was so much more. I just couldn’t face them, too much of a coward, and now it’s too late.  
  
I don’t know where I find the strength, but I straighten myself even if I can’t hold back the tears streaming down my face in ribbons. I can’t bring myself to look at him climb the stairs to the stage or watch Effie shake his hand. I’m forced to listen to her say, “Now let’s hear it for our two tributes, Louise Darbis and Peter Melton.”  
  
My head snaps up at the stage. It’s a Seam boy standing there next to Louise . I look around my group and see Peeta standing where he was when we first got here, his brows scrunched together and his head cocked to the side looking at me. He’s wondering why I’m so upset. I can’t bring myself to meet his eyes because the strange feelings I unleashed moments ago hit me again.


	17. Saving for a Rainy Day

All of the children start to disperse, but I can’t move. My legs feel rooted in the coal dusted, hard-packed dirt underneath my feet.  
  
The faint sound of Madge’s voice seeps into my thoughts just under the loud thumping in my ears that are in time with the loud thumping in my chest. “Katniss, are you alright?” I hear the words but I can’t understand them. My eyes drift along the edge of the gathering where families greet their children, thankful for another year with them while they try to forget that it means someone else’s family had to suffer for it.  
  
Peeta stands with my parents, eager to take Flower into his arms all the while talking with them as though he’s always been a part of the family. It doesn’t take long for his eyes to make their way to me. I can’t face him, and my gaze falls to the ground.  
  
Madge turns behind her for a moment and then says, “Oh,” as though she’s just figured something out. I guess she has because she comes closer to whisper, “You thought Effie said ‘Peeta,” didn’t you?” It’s not really a question. She takes my hand in hers, the first time Madge has ever purposely breached our personal space, and gives it a squeeze.  
  
“That Capitol accent,” she says with a hint of exasperation. With one last glance over her shoulder, she adds, “At least we survived the reapings,” giving me a sympathetic smile and letting my hand go so that she can meet her father.  
  
I’d like to agree with her, even if it’s a simple nod, but I can’t move. The ability to respond in any way disappeared somewhere in the chaos of thoughts and feelings churning inside me.  
  
We have survived. Madge and I are no longer forced to go to school or participate in reapings. Our entire lives are ahead of us, whatever that’s worth. We’re no longer in that limbo between child and adult but are considered women in the eyes of the district. And as women, we’re expected to marry and have babies that will keep the reapings with an ample supply of possible tributes.  
  
For Madge, that means marrying a good merchant man, no matter where her heart may lie. She will live the life of relative comfort with the single worry whether her children will be reaped even though there’s little chance of that. It does happen once in a while, but not that often. Eloise was the first merchant child to be picked in years.  
  
For me, a Seam woman, I’m expected to marry a miner and worry not only for my children being reaped, but for my husband’s safety in the mines as well as how much food there is to feed my family. Comfort is not a word used often in the Seam.  
  
Peeta bounces Flower in his arms, and the smile on her face is identical to her father’s, and with a twist in my gut, my thoughts snap back to how things could have gone today. How there was a chance it could have been Peeta sitting somewhere inside the Justice Building, accepting visitors before going to the Capitol to meet a certain death. It could have been me and Flower visiting him one last time. And what would I have said to him then?  
  
The truth comes to me in the form of a tear traveling down my cheek. Just the thought that Peeta might die brings me to tears. If he had been reaped, I would have been a mess of choking sobs as well.  
  
Suddenly, I realize that I’m already there. I’ve already met my expectations as a Seam woman. Peeta and I aren’t married, but I don’t want him to be taken from me whether it’s a reaping or a mining accident. Keeping Flower’s belly full is already my priority and I’m constantly in fear of the day she turns twelve and has to stand with all of the other twelve year olds for her first reaping.  
  
The two of them are a part of me no matter how hard I tried to keep a distance, to protect myself from the pain of losing someone I love…  
  
I jump as a small hand latches onto my arm, startling me which is the last thing I need at the moment. My nerves are at their breaking point, and if I had my bow and arrows, it would have been ready to fire. I’m glad I don’t when I turn to find Prim standing behind me.  
  
“Katniss?” Her hand goes straight to my forehead. “Rory told me you collapsed.”  
  
“Little duck,” I manage to say, to finally speak, but my throat is gravelly. Even now, at fourteen years old, her shirt has worked its way out in the back. Not as much now that she’s grown into her hand-me-downs more, but still enough to remind me why I call her my little duck.  
  
“What’s wrong?” she asks, eyeing me from head to toe to find some indication of why I’m shaking like a leaf and can barely register my surroundings. She won’t find anything because what she’s looking for is all on the inside. It’s all of those hopes and fears and desires surfacing at once. Perhaps if I’d let them in slowly, I might have been able to accept them, but I didn’t. And now, they swallow me whole.  
  
“I think we should get you home,” she says, taking my hand to lead me to our family and Peeta, but I don’t budge. I can’t face him like this. I just can’t face him, yet.  
  
I don’t realize I said this aloud until Prim scrunches her brows and looks at me curiously, “You mean Peeta?”  
  
Hearing his name shakes me to my core. Hearing his name makes everything I’m feeling…real. All I can do is shake my head as I take one, then two steps away from my little sister. After any other reaping, I would have my arms around her and feel the relief of knowing she’s safe for another year, but I can’t do that. I can’t face my family. I can’t face my daughter, and I can’t face Peeta.  
  
So I run, and I don’t stop until I’m at the fence.

* * *

My body’s curled into the crook of where a thick limb meets the trunk of an old, sturdy tree. I’ve been this way since I came to the woods, watching the animals scurry through the trees and thickets because there’s no predator around. Why would they consider me a predator without my bow and arrows?  
  
At one point, I even surprised a squirrel making it’s way up the tree. I’ve been so quiet and still. The sun set a while ago, and it’s been hours since I left the town square after the reaping. Still, I’m no closer to having a handle on what I’m feeling, what I’m really feeling instead of what I’ve only allowed myself to believe that I was feeling.  
  
Peeta’s words: “…the only woman I’ve ever loved” loop in my mind over and over. I think of the words he whispered the night when we were sixteen and celebrating having survived another reaping: “I’ve loved you for most of my life,” and my body shivers.  
  
How can he be so sure? How can he be so certain that what he felt was love?  
  
My muscles are stiff from the hours of lack of use, so it feels good when I finally stretch them before climbing down the tree. I don’t know what to do when it comes to Peeta, but the only thing that makes sense, any kind of sense, is to tell him what I’m feeling, as jumbled and baffling as it is. I owe him that much, and maybe, just maybe, he can make sense of all of this since he seems to have a better handle on it all.  
  
The Seam is quiet and there are lights in only a few homes. Most families have finished celebrating having their loved ones with them safe and sound for another year and have gone to bed.  
  
Walking down the row of one-room houses, I think of my family and the dinner they’d had. I think of Prim feeding Flower and my parents discussing the two tributes, how much they did or didn’t know them. And Peeta's in this image as well, talking and laughing and celebrating as though he’s always been a part of it and always will be.  
  
It occurs to me that he may not be home, that is, until I see the light coming from his house. It’s like a beacon, the one steady thing for me to focus on as I walk up the steps to his door. There are sounds coming from inside, and the closer I get to the door, the more they sound feminine.  
  
I peek through the side of the window to see Mattie inside. She’s sitting at the table with him, smiling sweetly.  
  
“I’m glad we both made it through,” she says to him. His hand rests on the table and she gently covers it with her own. As his lips turn upward into the beginning of a smile, I realize that the love he felt for me didn’t necessarily mean forever.

* * *

By the time I get home, there are no lights inside. Everyone’s already gone to bed, and I prefer it that way. The questions will come, and they have every right to ask them, but at the moment I don’t think I can sort through my thoughts enough to give a coherent answer.  
  
One careful step at a time, avoiding the noisiest creaking floorboards, I make my way to the bedroom where the door is cracked open just a little. There isn’t much in the way of light since a thick layer of cloud cover hides the moon and leaves navigating to the bed mostly to memory. My head barely hits the pillow, thankful that I hadn’t woken either Prim or Flower, when I hear my name whispered in the dark. “Katniss?”  
  
There’s no hint of grogginess in Prim’s voice which means she was awake longer than when I arrived. “Why are you still awake? It’s late.”  
  
“What happened today?” Her voice is a mixture of two parts concern, one part annoyance. It’s no surprise. I did miss congratulating her on one more year of safety. I missed our celebration dinner. It was my last reaping, and parents always hold large celebrations, more than any birthday. I can’t blame them because I’ll spend every coin we save to celebrate Flower’s last reaping as well as Prim’s. So I can see how it was something my parents were looking forward to only for me to disappear for most of the night.  
  
My mind had finally quieted but the question only causes the thoughts to flood back in, the feelings to swell until they are too loud and so raw that my eyes start to burn. I push my head deep into the pillow and cover my face with my hands in some pathetic attempt to hide myself from them, from her.    
  
I’m frustrated. I’m angry because I’m frustrated. I have no idea how to tell my sister all of the things running through my head, so the only place to start is what stands out the most in my mind. “I thought Effie Trinket called Peeta’s name,” I say through gritted teeth.  
  
From Prim’s side of the bed comes a gentle, sympathetic, “Oh,” before the room goes quiet again which only makes my thoughts noisier.  
  
“Where did you go?”  
  
“The woods.”  
  
“This late?” Her voice rises which makes Flower stir. We both remain still and quiet until we’re satisfied that she’s back to sleep. “Peeta thought that you didn’t want him around for the dinner after. He left early in the hopes that you would come home. You should speak to him. "  
  
I wince at her words. When I went to his house, I had every intention of telling him, or at least to try to tell him what I’m thinking and feeling, but to see Mattie at his house, to see how comfortable and cozy they were together made all of my intentions crumble into coal dust. “I did go by there before I came home.”  
  
“You did?” she squeals at the same time her side of the bed shifts heavily. Prim’s silhouette now faces me, her eyes are on me with Flower curled into the fetal position between us. Prim lifts her head up on her hand, propped up by her elbow. Flower stirs from Prim’s high pitched voice and movement. I spend the next few seconds waiting for Flower to settle back into sleep wondering why my little sister seems so excited that I went to speak with Peeta. “What did you tell him?”  
  
“Didn’t have a chance to tell him anything.” I then recount what I’d seen which leaves Prim quiet for a long time. The longer I wait for her response the more anxiety piles on top of everything else I’m feeling. I wish someone could help me put the lid back on this boiling pot of emotions, to make me feel like myself again. There was a shred of hope that Prim could be that person which only makes me feel worse. How pathetic can I be to hope that my fourteen year old sister can help me bottle up my feelings for Peeta.  
  
And then she says, “You should try again,” with such conviction that I almost believe her. Even though I know it’s too late, that Peeta’s moved on already, I want to believe Prim. I want to believe that just by talking to him, he’ll love me again because I want him to love me, not Mattie.  
  
Not to mention, it feels eerily familiar, taking advice from Prim. And then I remember that this is so close to how things played out struggling to decide what to do while pregnant with Flower. I may not be a crying mess curled on the bed like I was then, but Prim’s resolute voice is like a light in the darkness just as it was then. It’s the same conviction I drew strength from then and now. It quiets the thoughts and feelings and makes me believe that somehow talking to Peeta will make everything better.

* * *

Saturday at eight o’clock in the evening we all stand in the town square. It’s the next mandatory viewing of the Hunger Games key events: the Opening Ceremony. Those from town have already gathered by the time we arrive, and I’m stopped cold when I see Peeta standing with Mattie. They aren’t with any of his other “friends” but they are close and the dreamy look in Mattie’s eyes tells me all I need to know.  
  
Prim holds my free hand while I clutch Flower tightly to me with my other arm. “Everything will work out,” Prim says, giving my hand a reassuring squeeze. I would hope that she’s right, that everything will work out in the end, but my hope vanishes the moment Mattie takes Peeta’s hand and he doesn’t stop her.  
  
The large projection screen flickers on displaying the Capitol citizens gathered along the City Circle. Commentators gush over the latest fashion Panem’s elite wear to the event before the first chariot begins its journey. I can barely watch because my eyes always seem to wander to the crowd of blonds, to where Mattie leans her head on Peeta’s shoulder.  
  
Prim quickly takes Flower from me and gives my arm a quick, soothing rub. “It’s okay, Katniss. I’m sure it’s nothing.”  
  
“Nothing…”  
  
Mattie curls her body against Peeta’s side and I think it might be everything.  
  
The two tributes from our district are the last to begin their journey down the City Circle. I can barely make out the elegant suits they wear that shimmer in red as though it’s smoldering, the same costumes our tributes wore for the Quarter Quell last year, because my eyes are brimming with tears.

* * *

Sunday’s warmer than what I expect for even mid-June and the added moisture in the air doesn’t help. Flower’s usually wild curls are plastered to her head in damp waves. There’s a thick layer of clouds that have turned gray by the time Flower and I arrive at Peeta’s door.  
  
Again, I hear a feminine voice from inside and hesitate to knock. Instead, I stand near the door and wait quietly which allows me to hear their raised voices.  
  
“Peeta, you know it’s time you came back to town,” Mattie argues. “Everyone’s getting married now that we’ve survived our reapings.”  
  
“Mattie, the Seam is my home, now, with my daughter.”  
  
“But you can come back to town with her,” she says. “Bring your daughter with you if you want. I’ve seen her, she looks no more Seam than you or I. It’ll be perfect.”  
  
She’s suggesting what Prim feared the most, and I stretch my neck so that I can see inside through the window. I’m curious to know what Peeta will say, how he’ll react to this. I want to believe the best of him. I want to believe that he would never do such a thing, but after watching him with Mattie in the square, I’m not sure of anything.  
  
“Take her from her mother?” It sounds as though Peeta can’t believe his ears, that she would ever suggest such a thing. I’m not surprised, although I am relieved that he’s taking this stance.  
  
“Peeta,” she says his name syrupy sweet that makes my stomach heave, “she could have such a wonderful life in town. What kind of life would she have here, in the Seam?” To emphasize her point, she takes a long look around his house.  
  
“What kind of life would she have without her mother?” Peeta’s voice has deepened with his anger, and in response, Mattie fumbles with her words. “I…I…just meant…that I could be a mother…to…”  
  
She doesn’t get the opportunity to finish the thought. The front door swings open making me jump away from the window with Flower tight in my arms. Peeta’s focus is on Mattie with his brows low and his lips pressed tightly together, but Mattie’s eyes are on me.  
  
“I should leave,” she squeaks, rushing to the door, pulling the hood of her sweater over her head to hide so that no one would recognize her in the Seam, and squeezes by me to get to the stairs. It’s good she says nothing to me because there’s nothing for her to say. Any chance of civility vanished the moment she suggested Peeta take my daughter from me.  
  
“Yeah, you should,” Peeta says, his glare follows her every step all the way to the door where I stand with Flower frozen and unsure of what to do or say. His eyes meet mine and widen, the anger in them melt away, leaving only confusion.  
  
“Katniss? Is it that time already?”  
  
I take a step back and my back hits the weathered wood of his tiny house as he takes a step towards me. If all that I was feeling was overwhelming before, it’s unbearable now. I want to scream, yell at him for spending time with Mattie Caulding, allowing her to touch him. She obviously had no qualms about taking my daughter from me, as though it were as simple as walking to town which makes me want to knock her into the dirt. The thought that he once shared kisses with that girl turns my stomach. I can’t even allow myself to remember that they shared more than that.  
  
What’s worse is that even now, even as furious as I am with her and with him, I stare into his eyes and want to rush into his arms. I want to press my lips against his and breathe him in. I want to run my fingers through the golden curls and think that he’s mine and only mine…but he isn’t.  
  
“Katniss?”  
  
“I didn’t want to interrupt,” I blurt out. “You and Mattie…”  
  
He rolls his eyes at that then shakes his head. “Nevermind Mattie. You know I’d never take Flower away from you,” he says. His tone, his eyes plead for me to believe him, and I do. My eyes drop down to where his hand holds my arm, and I can feel the warmth from it. The hairs along my arm are raised by the physical connection.  
  
“I believe you, Peeta,” I say before meeting his eyes again. His breathing increases as he takes another tentative step closer with the barest hint of a smile.  
  
“All I want is what’s best for Flower,” he breathes and I nod because I can’t speak when he’s this close. My body’s broken out into a sweat and my heart is pounding in my ears. He doesn’t move any closer, but it takes everything in me not to trail my free hand up his arm to his shoulder, to slip it around his neck and pull him to me.  
  
Thoughts of having his body close to mine with Flower between us conjures feelings of stability, a grounding that comes with a sense of peace.  
  
I turn away and bend down to place Flower on the first step beside me to break what was happening with me because it wasn't real. How could it be when he still harbors feelings for Mattie?

Flower stretches her arms up at Peeta, opening and closing her hands and repeating the word “Up.” He nods as though acknowledging that whatever was happening between us has passed and doesn’t hesitate a second more to scoop Flower up and into his arms.  
  
She squeals and wraps her tiny arms around his neck with her doll dangling behind his back. Their relationship is like this, now. He no longer needs to give her time to adjust to the idea of him holding her. The two of them have forgotten about me as he takes her into the house, so I shuffle inside behind them. I don’t mind that they are in their own world because I’m in mine at the moment.  
  
My thoughts have run rampant because inside of me there’s a war waging and I can’t seem to find a way to make it stop. There’s my heart versus my head, what I want versus what I can’t have, what’s not real versus what’s real.  
  
Peeta takes a seat at his table and I follow, watching him with Flower as they play with her doll and he offers her some old, staling cheesebuns. “My father couldn’t spare the flour for a fresh batch,” he apologizes, explaining how the days after the reaping take their toll on the bakery. There’s always an increase in toastings, and people buy lots of bread for the big celebration dinners for children who have survived their last reaping.  
  
There’s a pang of guilt to be reminded that I wasn’t there for my dinner. I know my parents splurged on two fresh loaves of bread for that night because it was what we had for breakfast that Saturday morning.  
  
I watch Peeta chase Flower around the house, change her diaper better than I ever could, feed her the last cheesebun for lunch and settle her in the center of his bed for a nap.  
  
“Did you know Peter Melton?” he asks not long after he flops down into the chair.  
  
I didn’t expect the question, although I should have. Peeta did see my reaction at the reaping. I shake my head, but I don’t offer an explanation because I’m not ready to talk about what happened, about what I’m feeling. My palms are sweating and I rub them against my pants.  
  
There’s something in his face that fades as quickly as it came, but he shakes it off and turns his attention to Flower sleeping in the center of his bed. “It’ll never end, will it?" he asks and I know exactly what he means.

We’re supposed to be happy because we can’t be reaped anymore, but we still have Flower to worry about. And then her children. It’ll go on and on.  
  
I nod and mutter, “It’s why I never wanted children.”  
  
“Katniss,” his eyes lock on mine, soft and vulnerable, “I never did ask. Why did you have her? You said your mother has the herbs for after. You could’ve taken them.”  
  
Heat rushes up my neck and spreads out into my cheeks, my eyes, the tips of my ears. “I did it for Prim. I would never have heard the end of it if I’d taken those herbs.”  
  
He nods at that and looks out his window. There’s a soft mist of rain coming down now, the sprinkling day-showers that are typical for this time of year. I hope that it will end by the time Flower and I have to leave for home.  
  
The odds aren’t in my favor.  
  
Sprinkles turn into light rain. By late afternoon, light rain has become big fat drops pouring down from a dark sky. “You should wait it out,” Peeta suggests as we both look out his door. The wind’s gusted up as well, promising a miserable if not dangerous walk back home. “I’ll walk you both home when it’s done.”  
  
Eleven o’clock rolls around and the wind and rain are accompanied by lightning. “I guess you’ll be staying here for the night,” he says.  
  
Flower’s irritable because we’ve kept her awake, to be ready to leave as soon as the weather cleared. It’s well past her bedtime. She hasn’t even had dinner yet and the last of the stale cheesebuns is gone. “What do you have?” I ask him and he points to his practically bare cupboard. There’s nothing but tesserae grain and oil. Fortunately, I’m from the Seam.  
  
I mix the grain with water for a rough dough, separate into flattened cakes and fry them using the oil. I scrape the oil left over from the cheesebuns with the bread to give them a little more flavor along with a bland gravy made from ground grains and oil. Peeta watches me the whole time with Flower on his knee, in awe that I can make something from practically nothing.  
  
Having only lived in the Seam for a few weeks, it’s not surprising that he doesn’t know this meal. Everyone in the Seam has had this meal. For some, it’s all they have to eat.  
  
He doesn’t say anything as we eat our meager dinner. He doesn’t say anything as we change Flower’s diaper and lay her in the center of the bed again for the night. He just stands at the door, staring out into the darkness that lights up every now and then from the crack of lightning in the sky or the heavy gusts of wind that whip through the door and windows.  
  
I join him because outside of the tiny house mirrors what’s going on inside me. It feels comforting to see it out there on display.  
  
“Katniss,” he turns his body to me, so close, and my pulse reaches up to my throat. His eyes reflect the bursts of lightning in the sky and they hold me in place, so blue and electric. Anything he wants, I’ll give him because I know in that very moment that all of the turmoil inside me leads to this. Thoughts of having his body against mine barge their way into my mind again, but this time there is no sense of comfort and stability. Just the opposite. I feel off kilter and my the muscles in my belly tighten uncomfortably so. There’s a pulse between my legs that’s relentless not matter how I try to ignore it.  
  
I can’t say a word, not even his name, but I nod slowly waiting for whatever it is he has to say.  
  
“I think,” he breathes, steeling himself to say whatever it is he’s trying to say, “I think I’m ready to have Flower on Sundays without you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I had to decide whether to post this chapter on time at the two week mark without the last scene or wait a little longer to be able to add it on. I decided to wait a little longer. This chapter is close to 5000 words which is where I usually split it, but the last scene had to stay in.
> 
> The events in this chapter are about a month after Peeta found out that Flower was his daughter. Flower is 15 months old.


	18. This is it

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I know many of you were **very** disappointed and/or heartbroken when it came to the last chapter. I think the best word to describe the reaction to it is despair. Unfortunately, there was no hope in sight for the next two chapters, so I'd decided to combine and restructure them into one and leave you guys with the view of the light at the end of the tunnel. I present to you this almost 7000 word behemoth.
> 
> I do have to remind you guys of this story's rating. It starts to earn it in this chapter. Reader discretion is advised.

_“I think,” he breathes, steeling himself to say whatever it is he’s trying to say, “I think I’m ready to have Flower on Sundays without you.”_  
  
Whatever I expected him to say, it wasn’t this. The air in my lungs is forced out all at once, and I bite my lower lip to keep it from trembling. I’d rather sound calm and indifferent when I speak, but when I manage a single word, “Sure,” my voice cracks.  
  
“You’re okay with this, aren’t you?” he asks me, his head tilting to the side as his brows dip a little. He’s looking for something in my expression, but I’m not sure what. “I mean, you trust that I won’t take Flower, right?”  
  
I do trust him. I’ve always trusted him since the day he saved my family from starving, after my father almost died. But then, isn’t that why I’m here with him in the Seam with our daughter sleeping in his bed?  
  
“I trust you. I just need sleep is all,” I tell him because it’s the first excuse I could think of, so I turn and head for the bed. With Flower curled around her doll in the center of it, there’s so little room for me to fit, but I squeeze myself into what space there is available and hide my face in Flower’s curls.  
  
One thought repeats itself over and over in my mind as I shut my eyes tight to fight back the tears: Love isn’t forever. Peeta told me he loved me, but he never promised that he’d love me forever. And why should he when he could have someone like Mattie Caulding?  
  
The thought of her heats my blood, and the anger is welcome to the pain it replaces. I cover Flower with a protective arm at the thought of that town girl ready to take my daughter from me so easily. Although I’ve not been the best mother to her, she’s mine and I dare anyone to tell me otherwise.  
  
“Mama,” she breathes as though somehow in her sleep she’s aware of my presence. I gently draw my arm in, pulling her close to me.

* * *

I’d fallen asleep fighting my tears only to wake up in the middle of the night. Peeta’s sitting in one of the chairs with his head resting in his arms on the table. Flower and I were covered with his blanket sometime in the night and it does nothing but surround me in his scent which only bring more tears.  
  
I hate myself for each one shed until I fall asleep again.  
  
This time I wake to the sounds of movement. Opening my eyes takes some work because they’re puffy. Peeta’s moving around his house, preparing for his day of work by the time I peek through swollen eyelids.  
  
“I tried not to wake you both,” he says softly, but Flower’s already blinking her eyes to focus.  
  
“Daddy?” She blinks some more as though she’s not sure if what she’s seeing is real. I’m not convinced she’s aware of where she is at the moment, the fog of sleep making her forget we didn’t go home last night.  
  
“I’m here,” he says to her, bending down to give her a kiss on her forehead. Down to our level in the bed, his eyes meet mine and I feel my gut clench.  
  
He’s at the door and ready to leave for work but stops short and snaps his fingers before turning back around. “Oh, yeah. Delly told me to tell you Flower’s shoes are ready. She’s quite proud of her work, too.”  
  
I nod at that and say a quick, “Thank you.”  
  
“I’ll see you both in town, Wednesday?” he asks me, but we both know he will. It’s the next mandatory viewing, the training scores before the games. It’s hard to think about it when  I know he’ll probably be there with Mattie again which only turns my stomach.

* * *

The first day I have time to take Flower into town for her shoes is Thursday before mandatory viewing. First I have to stop by the bakery to trade for bread. I don’t feel comfortable going there with Prim and Flower in tow, but my mother and father really want bread for dinner and Prim wanted to get out of the house now that school is done.  
  
All I have is one squirrel for the baker. Still, it’s a fat thing and should be a good trade for a large, stale loaf.  
  
Mr. Mellark is at the side door before I can even knock, having probably seen us from the bakery. I’m ready to make the trade at the door as we always do, but he won’t hear of it, insisting that the three of us come inside.  
  
Even with all of the windows open and a good cross-breeze, the warmer weather and the ovens make for a hot house.  
  
“Primrose, you may have sprouted an inch since I saw you last month.” He smiles at my sister, obviously in no hurry to make the trade. I should have known he wouldn’t want to rush things with Flower here.  
  
“Thank you, Mr. Mellark.” Prim beams but then focuses her attention back on Flower.  
  
“Do you think I can hold her for a little bit?” he asks me and I glance at my sister who bounces Flower in her arms with a smile, so I nod and smile at the baker.  
  
Prim hands him Flower who seems confused by the exchange but not enough to make her uncomfortable and certainly not enough to cause her to cry. This is the third time she’s been in her grandfather’s arms and she stares at him curiously with her finger dangling from her mouth.  
  
“I’ll get you your bread,” Mr. Mellark says as he walks to the door that leads to the bakery front, but then stops right before going through it. He’s asking me a question with his eyes, and it takes me a while to figure out what he wants, which is to take Flower to the front with him. I nod, but then realize that I’ll have to follow him because Mrs. Mellark is in the front.  
  
As soon as we go through the doors, all eyes are on us, but Mr. Mellark doesn’t seem to care one bit. He bags a loaf of bread with one hand and carries Flower to the shelf of cookies. “Pick one,” he says to her, but she’s not sure what that means so she looks at him curiously again. It’s not as though the man hasn’t been smiling the whole time, but the one he gives her is brighter and wider as he decides for her and takes a cookie.  
  
I recognize the one he gives her. It’s the most expensive one they have that comes with chips of what I’d once heard someone call toffee, so I’m not surprised when Mrs. Mellark rushes over to them and snatches the cookie out of Flower’s hand. My daughter’s lip quivers and she buries her face in Mr. Mellark’s chest with her doll covering whatever she can’t hide, just as she does with Peeta’s when she’s tired or upset.  
  
“You can’t give her this!” the baker's wife yells as she holds up the cookie to her husband’s face. “She’s too young for the toffee chips. She might choke.”  
  
A deep crimson spreads fast along Mr. Mellark’s neck and face, all the way up to the tips of his ears as he holds Flower close to him and tries to console her. “Oh, I forgot about those. It’s been so long since we’ve had a baby around.” Mrs. Mellark nods her head and turns to the cookie counter to reach for a sugar cookie.  
  
Mr. Mellark doesn’t take the cookie from his wife. If I didn’t know better, I’d think Mrs. Mellark was trying to coax Flower from her grandfather’s chest. It works…a little. Flower peeks out, but she doesn’t take the cookie. As if all of this hasn’t been surreal enough, the corners of Mrs. Mellark’s mouth twitch upward. It’s only for a second or two, but it’s enough to see it.  
  
I stare in disbelief. I know my mouth must be open because my jaw is hanging. Prim’s the same when I glance in her direction.  
  
Call it shock, call it whatever you want, but I’m too stunned to insist that we complete the trade quickly and leave. Mr. Mellark fawns over Flower much the same way Peeta does, as though there’s no one in the world more important. And with this sudden change in Mrs. Mellark, I can’t say I have a reason to press the issue.  
  
By the time our visit's done, Prim, Flower, and I don’t have enough time to make it to the shoe shop since we still have to go home to help our mother walk with our father to town.

* * *

The screen set up in the square for this this time of year glows with the bright, dazzling light of Caesar Flickerman’s studio as the host welcomes everyone for the upcoming interviews. I’m holding Flower in my arms as she plays with her doll, swinging it from its yarn hair. Every year it’s hard to watch the children selling themselves in the hopes that they’ll garner support from wealthy sponsors, but this time I can’t keep my eyes on the screen because they’re focused on Peeta and Mattie.  
  
My only comfort is that, like during yesterday's viewing of the tributes’ scores, they’re not holding hands, not even touching for that matter. Still, just seeing them together tightens my chest. That comfort only last until Louise walks on stage and Mattie’s hand slips into Peeta’s. He doesn’t refuse her, so I close my eyes for the rest of the viewing.  
  
Louise talks about her family, her parents and older sister, how they moved here from District Ten. She laughs easily and banters with Caesar as though they were old friends. I listen to her charm the man and the audience and wonder if she might actually last longer than most from our district.  
  
Peter doesn’t do as well. I don’t have to see him to know that the boy has all of the Seam bred and nurtured anger oozing out of every pore. He resents each and every moment on that stage, and each and every person watching him on stage. I can’t blame him, but he can’t do this. He has to play the part if he wants to survive.  
  
By the time his interview is over, I can hear the frustration in Caesar’s voice. It took some work on his part to make Peter seem almost likable. Almost.  
  
I crack my eyes open and the man’s face looks just as exhausted as he sounds before the light fades from the screen.  
  
Peeta and Mattie are no where to be found, and I rest my chin on top of Flower’s head as I wrestle with the tears welling in my eyes.

* * *

Many shops close their doors for mandatory viewing days just like the mines, but some choose to stay open like the bakery and the shoemaker’s shop, where the sign is still turned to the side that says, “Open.”  
  
Prim, Flower, and I are in town again to pick up Flower’s shoes. I make sure not to stop by the bakery again so that we can actually get this done.  
  
I’m carrying Flower with Prim following right behind me. My mood’s still sour thinking about Peeta with Mattie, but I try to hide it because Prim would take one look at my face and start to ask questions. I can’t tell her how Mattie’s suggesting the very thing Prim feared. I can’t tell my sister that Peeta’s found comfort in Mattie’s welcoming arms. So I pretend that I’m okay as she talks about Rory coming by on Tuesday afternoon with his little brother and sister to ask if she wanted to go to the meadow with them.  
  
I pretend that everything is fine when she describes how Posy held her hand the whole way. I’m so preoccupied with listening to her story and trying to seem more cheerful than I am, I don’t notice who else is in the shoe shop until the door closes behind us.  
  
“How is poor Anna and her family?” Delly asks Mattie at the counter.  
  
“They’re holding up as best as you can expect. They stay as far back from the screens as they can so the town won’t watch them mourn for her. After moving here from District Ten, they never thought one of their girls would be reaped.”  
  
Delly nods sympathetically. “It could’ve been any of us.” I know what Delly’s thinking but is too kind to say aloud. It _could_ have happened to any of us, but we’re safe now, no longer eligible for the reaping.  
  
Suddenly, Delly lifts her head to peek over Mattie’s shoulder and sees us. “Oh, good!” she squeals. “You got my message.”  
  
I nod, but my eyes are on the one person I don’t want to see at this very moment.  
  
Mattie’s eyes are on me, too, but I can’t help notice the way they slide to Flower every now and then.  
  
“I’ll see you,” she says to Delly who nods at her with a bright smile.  
  
As much as I try to keep my focus on Delly and the reason for why we’re here, it’s hard to ignore the eyes burning into me. My hackles raise the moment she stops in front of me and says, “He doesn’t belong there, you know.”  
  
There’s no reason for her to say his name because I know exactly who she’s talking about and what she means. Peeta doesn’t belong in the Seam, but I’d never give Mattie Caulding the satisfaction of agreeing with her.  
  
“But don’t worry,” she sighs. “He’ll come around and see things my way.” She straightens her back and raises her chin up high. “His mother’s on my side, y’ know.”  
  
“His mother?” I repeat, blinking at her while trying to figure how Mrs. Mellark fits in to all of this.  
  
“Of course,” Mattie says with a smug smile forming on his lips. “Do you think any woman would want her son and grandchild living in THAT place?”  
  
I’m reminded of Mattie’s conversation with Peeta and turn my body away from Mattie to put distance between her and Flower. “You’re not taking my daughter!” is all I say to her and immediately regret it the moment I glance in Prim’s direction. My little sister's eyes have gone wide and watching us carefully. I’d forgotten that I hadn’t told my sister what I’d heard at Peeta’s house on Sunday, that I’d heard Mattie suggest to Peeta the very thing Prim's feared the day Peeta declared himself Flower's father.  
  
“Why do you have to be so selfish?” Mattie leans in towards me threateningly with her hands on her hips. “You know as well as I do that her life would be better here in town without you.”  
  
Flower starts to cry, and I realize that my grip’s been tightening around her along with my growing anger. I can’t hold her, not when I have the itch to punch that smug look off of Mattie’s face, so I hand my daughter to my sister.  
  
I don’t get to scratch that itch because a shrill sound distracts all of us, causing me, Mattie and Prim to turn towards the source.  
  
Delly’s rounding the counter, red-faced and eyes locked on Mattie. “Matilda Caulding! How dare you! To even suggest taking a baby from her mother…it’s…unthinkable!”  
  
Mattie doesn’t back down one bit, taking a step closer to the shoemaker’s daughter so that  they are even more face to face. “You, of all people, should want Peeta out of that sad place and back in town.”  
  
“He’s where he wants to be. Leave him and his daughter alone!”  
  
“I should tell your father what you're saying, defending that a good town boy live in the Seam.”  
  
“Go on, then!” Delly calls her bluff while folding her arms. “Tell him. My daddy’s always loved Peeta like a son, and thinks what he’s done for his daughter is commendable.” Delly pauses for a moment, then squints her eyes at Mattie, “Wait a minute. I remember you were there that Friday with Alby and the others.”  
  
Mattie’s brows dip down, and Delly’s finger pokes at her in the shoulder, “You weren’t laughing with the others, so I didn’t think much of you being there, but you were with them weren’t you?” Mattie has nothing to say to that, but Delly has more to say…so much more. She’s yelling in rapid, steady streams of high pitched sounds with the occasional squeak in her voice. I can’t make heads or tales of what she’s saying anymore until she takes a breath. This time she focuses on me and smiles. “Katniss, if you don’t mind I can give you Flower’s shoes another time.”  
  
I nod and decide that I’ll save my battle with Mattie for another time because clearly Delly wants a chunk out of her first. Sweet, always smiling, always kind Delly.  
  
Even as I close the door to the shoe shop behind us, I can still hear Delly’s voice, high-pitched and angry. Behind me, Prim’s focused on only me with Flower in her arms. “Take her? What’s this about, Katniss?”  
  
I sigh in defeat.

* * *

It’s several minutes before noon, and we arrive in town to watch the last of the mandatory viewing, the first day of the Hunger Games. After this, we can watch the Hunger Games whenever we choose, even if not at all.  
  
Fifteen minutes to noon, and Madge leaves her father’s side heading towards us. This is around the same time Peeta arrives with Mattie and strangely enough it’s also when the fighting begins.  
  
Delly storms over to them both, her finger poking at Mattie’s shoulder exactly as she did yesterday, then Peeta’s, then back at Mattie’s. She’s yelling again, and I can catch some of her high tones over the din of the crowd. When she’s through with them, she finishes by folding her arms and tapping her foot in the dirt waiting for something. Peeta turns to Mattie, expecting the girl to say something, and from the look on his face, she’d better answer quick. Her response comes with her hand reaching out for his arm but he pulls away and asks her something again. Her shoulders slump and she nods.  
  
Madge hasn’t budged from where she was when this started, a better position to see and hear what’s going on, and I don’t think she’ll move now that Mrs. Mellark’s arrived to add to the discussion with Mr. Mellark in tow.  
  
The woman is yelling and gesturing wildly, Mattie is crying, Delly’s glaring at her, and Mr. Mellark seems confused by whatever the conversation’s about. To make it even more of a spectacle, Peeta’s brothers enter the fray. Peeta’s older brother’s arguing with their mother, his oldest brother’s frowning with his future sister-in-law looking to every face as confused as Mr. Mellark. It’s five minutes to noon and if this isn’t resolved in three minutes, the Peacekeepers will get involved.  
  
“What on Earth do you think is going on over there?” my mother asks my father who then shrugs. They know as well as I do that I or Flower have something to do with it.  
  
Prim looks at me and I see in her eyes she’s thinking the same thing.  
  
Every single person over there is red-faced whether from yelling or crying, but Peeta’s eyes catch mine, and I immediately look away to the clock above the projection screen. His eyes follow mine and he must realize the time, then simply turns his back on them and walks away. He doesn’t say anything, he doesn’t look at anyone. He’s disappeared into the outer crowds and with that simple act, he’s knocked the wind out of the argument.  
  
The lights flicker on the projection and then there’s a panoramic shot of old ruins at the same time the countdown clock begins at one minute. The buildings are hollowed hulls, skeletons of what they once were, and dividing them is a space paved flat with weeds growing out of countless cracks. At the center of the open area is the cornucopia, circled by the tributes’ platforms that glow with the numbers of their district.  
  
One by one, the glowing district numbers disappear and tributes rise from below the surface and up onto their platforms. Some are trembling so hard they may actually shake their teeth loose. Some take in their surroundings quickly through squinting eyes, sizing up their positions, their opponents’ positions, the cornucopia, and the arena. Others steadily blink to adjust to the light.  
  
Louise and Peter are the last to come up sometime around twenty seconds on the countdown. Her eyes search for him, and his eyes are on the cornucopia, but when the signal’s given that it’s safe to leave their platforms, they both head for the same building.  
  
They’re forgotten in the melee. The youngest, the slowest are cut down efficiently by the tributes from One and Two. I’ve watched so many children die over the years, but these last two hunger games have been the hardest. Not because of me or even Prim. It’s because I look down at Flower playing with her doll, oblivious to her future eleven years from now. She might be one of those children, like the twelve year old girl who cries for her mother as the gash over her brow gushes blood everywhere. The boy from Two doesn’t kill her right away like the other careers. He plays with her, following her as she flounders around blindly, the blood soaking her face and her eyes.  
  
Every time she cries out, “Mama!” I hear Flower calling for me while I’m stuck here watching her die. I imagine the blood in her pretty blond hair and the realization that in that position I would pray for my daughter’s death if only for it to be quick. Several times I have to fight my stomach heaving and swallow back the bile that constantly threatens to rise.  
  
Prim has tears falling in steady streams, my mother covers her eyes by leaning her head on my father’s shoulder, but his eyes catch mine. His lips are pressed tightly together as are mine because we’re thinking the same thing: it could be Prim or Flower one day.  
  
The boy from Two slices at the girl’s calves, forcing her to the ground, but she hasn’t stopped trying to get away. Only now, she’s crawling, leaving a trail of her blood against the concrete.  
  
“Come on, Aulus. Be done with her,” says the girl from Two. The boy looks around and realizes that the bloodbath is over, the girl is the last of their victims in their move to take control of the cornucopia.  
  
Aulus let’s out a frustrated growl, probably because his “fun” has to come to an end and reaches for the girl’s hair. She’s crying, screaming, begging for her life, but the boy from Two ignores her as he holds the knife to her throat.  
  
I turn away because I can’t watch anymore. If a peacekeeper were to catch me, I could be arrested, but I can’t watch. It’s bad enough that I can’t cover my ears to block out her gurgles, still clinging to her life. It takes seconds before the gurgles stop and the cannon sounds. It’s the first I’ve heard, but I’m sure there were others…I just didn’t hear them because I was so focused on the boy from Two torturing the poor twelve year old from Seven.  
  
There’s a rumble from the screen that draws my attention back to it. The boys and girls from One and Two watch as the cornucopia shutters itself and sinks into the ground.  
  
The girl from One tries to jump onto it before it disappears into the ground but is propelled back with such force that her body’s flung across the open area and against one of the buildings. A cannon sounds the moment her limp body hits the ground.  
  
The boy from One reluctantly follows the others of his alliance by grabbing whatever provisions they'd already taken from the cornucopia and begin to navigate through the ruins. Words scroll across the screen with some man’s voice over it, telling us how we must stay tuned if we want to see what happens next.  
  
Now that mandatory viewing is over, Madge continues her way to us.  
  
“Do you think Louise and Peter have a plan?” she asks as soon as she reaches us. “They went into the same building.”  
  
So preoccupied with the girl, I hadn’t thought much of it. More than likely, the two have created an alliance together. I mean, if you’re going to trust anyone in the Hunger Games, more than likely it’s your district-mate.  
  
I have to admit that the games are the least of my thoughts. I’m curious to know what Madge heard, but I can’t bring myself to ask.  
  
My mother doesn’t share my reluctance to gossip, though. “What happened over there. Sounded like a heck of an argument.”  
  
“It was at that, Mrs. Everdeen.” Madge’s eyes turn to me while she tells my mother, “It was about Katniss.”  
  
“What about Katniss?” my father asks, adjusting himself on his crutch.  
  
“Delly yelled at Peeta, asking him how he could be around someone like Mattie and then told him she was there with a group of kids when Alby did something on a Friday…I think. It’s hard to follow Delly when she gets worked up.” My parents look confused, and for good reason. I hadn’t told them about what had happened that Friday when I waited for Prim at school. I would’ve preferred not to tell them at all.  
  
“Then she tells Peeta about some conversation that happened yesterday and Peeta asked Mattie if all these things were true. She tried to touch him, reassure him, I guess, but he didn't want her touching him. All he wanted was her answer. Then Mrs. Mellark comes around with her big mouth,” Madge frowns, “and tells Peeta that she’s had enough of his bad choices. That he’s to marry Mattie and bring her grandchild to town like any good town boy would.”  
  
Madge folds her arms and gets visibly angry the more she tells the story. “Peeta told them in no uncertain terms that he had no intention of marrying Mattie, leaving the Seam or most of all taking his daughter from her mother. His mother really started to scream then, and that’s when his brothers started arguing. It was a mess until Peeta just up and walked away. ”  
  
My parents are still confused, lacking many of the details, but they nod in approval all the same because Peeta’s proven himself to them yet again. Prim’s beaming and looking at me.  
  
“You should go to him,” Prims suggests in my ear.  
  
I shake my head, muttering how I’m the last person Peeta would want to see at the moment and focus on the screen that’s now dark.

* * *

In the Hob, people whisper of how Louise and Peter have teamed up with the tributes from Three, Four, and Eleven. I haven’t been watching because I can still hear the girl’s cry for her mother, but it’s hard to avoid the progress of the games.  
  
It’s a strange alliance, for sure. District Four’s tributes usually ally with the strongest, with One and Two, but maybe there’s something in our district’s tributes that we haven’t had in a long time. I wonder for only a moment if they have what it takes for one of them to win, but then I remember how thin and frail looking Peter was, having come from the Seam. Louise was healthy but naturally on the thin side. Besides, their training scores were a seven and a six. What threat could they possibly pose?  
  
There’s a chance that the tributes from Four are leading them into a trap, claiming to ally with them only to turn them over to the tributes from One and Two when the pickings get slim.  
  
Talking to Sae puts an end to that thought, and the news is hard to believe. Our tributes along with those from Four and Eleven were in the area where the cornucopia first appeared—apparently it repositions itself around the arena every so often.  
  
The tributes from Three were dismantling the explosives connected with the platforms while the rest protected them. The girl from Four and the boy from Eleven died protecting them all. Dying for them doesn't seem like a fake alliance.  
  
And rigging the explosives to go off after they’ve lured the tributes from One and Two into their building, it’s a good plan, a solid plan. I’m not sure if that’s going to work, but it’s creative, I’ll give them that.

* * *

Early Sunday morning, Prim’s dressing Flower in our room as I clean their breakfast dishes. Once Flower’s dressed, we’ll be ready to go to Peeta’s house.  
  
There’s a knock at the door and I dry my hands on the towel and wonder who would come by so early in the morning. It’s Peeta, standing there with a bright smile. “Good morning, Katniss.”  
  
“Peeta? What are you going here. We were going to go to your house soon.”  
  
“It’s okay. You don’t have to worry about that anymore. I’ll pick her up on Sundays. Besides, I’m taking her to the meadow. My house is a mess and I wouldn't want her around that."

"Mess?"

"Yup, I’m packing my stuff to move to my new house, so it’s really no place for a toddler."  
  
“New place?”  
  
His chest puffs out and her shoulders square. “Went to the Justice Building Wednesday to request a bigger house. When Flower comes to visit, she’ll eventually need her own room. Was assigned one, Friday.”  
  
Of course. Now that he’s officially Flower’s father, he can get a bigger house in the Seam. The new house can't be much, but it must be a far cry from what he has right now. A sudden chill comes over me as I think about him and Flower in his new house. There's no place for me there because it’s not my family.  
  
I’m at a loss for what to say next. I don’t trust to say anything knowing how my voice may crumble under the weight of everything I’m feeling.  
  
“Daddy!” Flower calls from my bedroom door and rushes across the room. Peeta’s at the door with his outstretched arms. He loves watching her walk, the pride brimming in his eyes. Flower trips on her own feet and falls hard to the floor, and before Prim or I can reach her, Peeta’s there soothing her hurt and making it all better. He’s a natural at that stuff and it makes me think it might be a good thing that he has her to himself on Sundays. Watching the two to them, it’s clear I would just get in the way.

* * *

Not quite a week into the hunger games, and the male tribute from Three blows himself up. His district-mate called him stupid, but is relieved that the rest of the bombs weren’t detonated.

* * *

It’s been a quiet day. Very little talk about the games because there hasn’t been a death in over a day. Everyone knows it’s coming, the moment when the Gamemaker’s have had enough and try to liven things up. They’ll try to herd the tributes into the same spot, hoping for more bloodshed, and if they’re lucky, a good, long fight.  
  
For Greasy Sae, I have a wild dog that decided to pick a fight with me today. She knows what to do to make the meat indistinguishable from venison with the right seasonings.  
  
I’m about ready to head home when a commotion starts around the screen at someone’s booth. “Is he going to do it?”  
  
“I don’t know,” whispers another person as they stare at the screen in disbelief.  
  
Peter’s at the cache of explosives with the detonating wires in his hands. The rest of his alliance are running away from him as fast as they can. It’s not uncommon for kids to commit suicide so that they can decide how they die, face it on their own terms.  
  
As soon as the last of his alliance is clear from the building. Peter crosses the two wires, and I think I hear him whisper to himself, “District Thirteen.”  
  
Watching the camera feed go blank, replaced by static, then replaced with a camera outside of the building, I wonder if he thought he was dying for a cause like that district, destroyed years ago. They died for a cause, too, and now look where they are, where we are. It’s now some charred ruin too toxic for anything to live for hundreds of years to come. The rest of the districts that survived have to sacrifice our children year after year.  
  
The rubble settles, but the clear blue sky of the arena flickers until it reveals panels going all the way up. There’s a crack that starts where Peter blew himself up and follows along the side where the exposed panels fall away. The nose of a hovercraft rams into the crack, opening it up to reveal the real blue sky behind the fake one. Sirens sound and then the screen goes black. Every screen in the Hob goes black. There’s nothing but our collective breaths as we try to process what we just saw.  
  
When people finally do start talking, it’s in hushed whispers. I’m not the only one who heard Peter say, “District Thirteen” before he blew himself to bits. That’s when the rumors start that District Thirteen still exists, but I have to laugh at that.

* * *

It’s been a long day hunting and I just dropped off a couple of rabbits for Sae. I have three squirrels for Mr. Mellark, so I have to walk past the barracks where the peacekeepers are busy packing trucks lining the streets. I’ve never seen so many at once, parked and idling. Peacekeepers fill them with boxes, furniture, anything they can fit into them.  
  
I watch for a long time, walking slower than I usually do when someone’s hand covers my mouth and another hand pulls me between buildings.  
  
“Katniss,” Darius sighs in relief. "I’m so glad you picked today of all days to come by here.”  
  
“What's going on?”  
  
Darius looks this way and that before telling me, “Take your family past the fence. You know your way around out there. Get your family as far away from here as you can!”  
  
“Why?”

Even now he doesn’t bother to answer. Darius pushes me towards the road to the Seam before he sprints to rejoin his fellow peacekeepers. “Just do it. Save as many as you can. I’ll keep the fence clear,” he calls back before disappearing in the chaos.  
  
I’m scared. When I see several trucks leaving with no less than ten peacekeepers in each, I’m really scared.  
  
I rush down the road that leads to the Seam and bump into Gale Hawthorne.  
  
“You have to take your family and leave,” I tell him. I’m completely out of breath. “The peacekeepers are leaving. I saw trucks of them leaving.”  
  
Gale frowns and looks far off to town and back at the Seam. Without a word, he takes a deep breath and gives me a nod of thanks before running in the opposite direction I thought he’d go in. He’s not going home, he’s going into town.  
  
I don’t have time to ask him why. I rush down the road and only stop at the fork that leads to the tiny houses near the mines. Part of me wants to go straight home and get my family to safety. It’s the other part of me that knows that means I have to try and get Peeta out of here too.  
  
The old, splintered wood of his door is surprisingly strong enough to stand up to my pounding. As much as I beat it with my fists, I expect it to break apart, but it holds up.  
  
“He’s not there,” says a woman walking down the path between houses. “He’s been moving his things to his new home.”  
  
New home. “Do you know where it is?”  
  
The woman shrugs and shakes her head, “Not a clue.”  
  
“Get to the fence in the meadow and leave the District. Go to the woods. Something bad’s going to happen,” I tell her but the woman shakes her head and laughs as she continues to walk down the path, “Sure, sure.”  
  
I don’t have time to convince her. I don’t have time to find Peeta. I have to get home and get Flower and Prim and my parents to the woods safely.

* * *

My mother helps my father out of the house while Prim pulls our little garden cart with Flower sitting on top of our meager belongings. As they are, they can make it. “Get them out of here,” I tell Prim before giving her a hug.  
  
“What do you mean? Aren’t you coming?” she pulls away from me.  
  
“Katniss, if what you say is true, what’s more important than leaving the district?” my father asks me and I don’t have time to second guess my answer.  
  
“I have to find Peeta. I have to try one last time.”  
  
My mother and father exchange a look between them and Prim’s tearing up. I can only chalk up their strange reactions to anxiety as I kiss Flower's forehead and run down the road towards town, towards the fork in the road that leads to the tiny houses near the mines.

By the time I reach his house, Peeta’s climbing his steps with a basket in his hands. “Come with me, now,” I tell him at the bottom of his steps.  
  
“Katniss? What are you doing here?”  
  
“Peeta,” I take a step up to him, “you have to come with me. The peacekeepers are all leaving and they’re nervous about something. We have to get out of here.”  
  
“Flower? Where is she?”  
  
“My parents and Prim have her and should be at the fence now.” I take another step. “We have to go.”  
  
“I have to warn my parents, my brothers…” he ignores me, rushing past me down the stairs and to the road. I follow him, because if he tries to go to town, there's a good chance he won't be able to get to the meadow. I know other weak points in the fence throughout the district.  
  
We’re running, my lungs are burning when we see a bright light ahead of us. It looks like lightning hitting the ground, and a second later the sound hits us where I can feel it in my chest, trembling under my feet and that stops us cold. There’s another light, and then another as each one gets brighter and closer. The town’s already been hit and Peeta knows it from the way he stares in that direction helplessly.  
  
“We have to go, Peeta!” I yell, but he won’t budge. He barely blinks. “Peeta!”  
  
I pull on his shirt to get him to move, but he’s strong and I can’t make him.  
  
“They’re gone,” he says to himself.  
  
“They’re gone, but we’re not!” I say, hoping that it will seep in. “Not yet!”  
  
He still doesn’t move, and the explosions in the distance are getting closer and closer. The trembles underneath our feet have become rumbles and we don’t have much time. I could leave him here, but the thought alone fills me with fear, frustration, and overwhelming desperation. I can’t leave him. I can’t lose him. “Peeta, please,” I beg him, grabbing fistfuls of his shirt and positioning my face in his line of sight. “Flower needs you!”  
  
“Flower?” he blinks once as though he hears her name in a fog.  
  
“I need you,” I confess because I do. I’ve spent weeks convincing myself that I wanted Peeta out of my life, and I would spend the rest of my life wishing he were in it again.  
  
He blinks at me some more until he closes his eyes. When he opens them again, they’re focused and looking at me as though for the first time. “Katniss?”  
  
“We have to get out of here, Peeta,” I take his hand in mine. “We have to go and find Flower.”  
  
There’s a tilt of his head, a slight nod but enough to know he’s finally on the same page. And then we run as fast as we can. At first, Peeta tries for the meadow, but I shake my head and run for the area of the fence closest to the mines. I know of a section of fence there that we can slip though. The gap isn’t as wide as the one in the meadow, but judging by the lights getting brighter and the sounds getting louder, we don’t have enough time to make it there.  
  
Several links in the fence are missing, exactly where I thought the hole would be, and so I go first to show Peeta how to slip through. He follows my lead, slipping his way through the fence as I catch the lights getting closer.  
  
With one leg out, his pant leg catches on the frayed fence and the more he struggles to free it, the more hold it seems to have on him. The thought does cross my mind if this fence is some kind of Capitol mutt.  
  
With my arms wrapped around him, we both pull but it’s no use. And then the lights are close, and the sound comes with some force that knocks us down. The next one will be too close and Peeta knows it. He pulls and twists frantically until there’s a ripping sound and he’s free. It’s sudden and catches us off guard, forcing us to the ground where we roll down a steep hill, tumbling without anything to stop us. In my fractured view I see fire, sooty sky and then nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so there are many time jumps here. This was the restructuring I mentioned in the earlier notes. Originally, I was going to have Katniss watch the games and have more detail about Louise and Peter's participation in the alliance, but then I realized I could cut most of that out and there was a really good reason why Katniss wouldn't want to watch them. 
> 
> I hope I didn't cut corners too much, and I have to warn, my editing skills take a beating with extremely long chapters. If you see something that must be fixed, please let me know.


	19. The Last Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a little late from my 2 week mark because this chapter gave me problems. Not in the usual way. My process for writing is to go through a series of drafts from the outline. It's usually bare-bones with he said this and she said that and they did this and that, etc. Usually it takes about 2 or 3 edits to expand and one final for glaring mistakes before posting. This one kept expanding and expanding until it ballooned into almost 6500 words. Like the last chapter, I should have split it but I think you guys would have killed me. But then again, you guys may kill me anyway. I'm 10x more nervous posting these large chapters because I feel as though huge mistakes are more likely to slip through the cracks.
> 
> Please keep in mind that these chapters will continue to earn the story's rating. Reader discretion is advised.

_Prim stands with my parents at the edge of the meadow as I slide through the gap in the fence. They were waiting for me. Flower’s midway between us picking flowers, but as soon as she sees me she stands and toddles my way. When she rushes, she trips over her own feet, and this time is no different._  
  
_Beyond Prim and my parents, somewhere in the Seam, there’s an explosion, plumes of fire and ash rising up in the distance. Each one is closer than the last, creeping up towards us at a pace we can’t outrun. The last one I see, the one on top of us is bright as the sun and probably just as hot. My parents disappear in the flames. Prim’s facing her imminent death, but at the last second she turns to face me before she’s swallowed by the fire as well._  
  
_Flower’s on the ground crying out for me and it cuts right to my heart. The blast strangely slows down but it’s coming for us steadily. She lifts her head and it’s covered in blood. She crawls along the ground screaming for me to come get her, save her from all of this. “Mama!”_  
  
_I start to run for her. There’s no way I’ll be able to save her, but at least she won’t leave this world alone. The fire reaches her before I do, and she disappears in it._  
  
_What do I have left? I drop to my knees waiting for my turn as the tears trail down and the smell of burning wood and chemicals fills my nose. It's so heavy I can taste it, feel the grit at the back of my mouth and down my throat. I ignore it and scream for my family to wait for me. It feels like forever now that I'm waiting for the Capitol to kill me too. I'm so impatient that I start to shout to the sky, hoping that the airships hear me, that even the Capitol hears me as I curse their very existence._  
  
_Strong arms wrap around me. The fire is gone but there are peacekeepers surrounding me, while one holds me down. His arms are firm, but they aren’t tight and the voice is surprisingly soothing. “Katniss…”_  
  
My eyes snap open to find a pair of blue staring and full of concern. “You wouldn’t wake up. You were having a nightmare.” The arms around me are Peeta's and I immediately relax into them.  
  
“Yeah,” is all I can say with the images of Prim and Flower still fresh in my mind.  
  
There’s an explosion at the top of the hill we rolled from. Fire reaches outside of the fence, igniting the foliage near it. Large clumps of ash that were once leaves float in the wind, tree limbs roll down hill to were we are, still burning. It’s not safe and we have to find my family.  
  
Peeta helps me up and out of a bush that’s covered in vines I’m tangled in. I’m so frustrated that I pull and yank at it and it gets me nowhere. It’s Peeta's patience to unravel the thing that finally frees me.  
  
“We have to go,” I tell him but stop when he grunts with the first step. It never occurred to me to make sure he was okay, but now I see the rip in his pants.  
  
“It’s nothing,” he mutters as he tries to walk ahead, but I tug at his arm to stop him and inspect the “nothing.”  
  
The wound he must've gotten when he was snagged on the fence is hard to miss with the material of his pants pulled apart. It seeps blood, and I turn away and cover my mouth with the back of my hand, trying desperately to keep whatever contents left in my stomach from coming up. It’s embarrassing how queasy I get at the sight of blood. I’ve skinned and gutted more animals than I can count, but it’s different when it’s people. It’s different with Peeta.  
  
Forcing myself to take another look, it’s clear the gash isn’t too deep but it’s deep enough to cause a problem later. It has to be covered, better yet, cleaned, but we don’t have clean water with us.  
  
“We need to wrap that,” I manage to say between hard swallows.  
  
“Yeah,” he says absentmindedly, because his attention is at the top of the hill where the fires still stretch outside of the fence. “They’re all dead…” he states. There’s a hint of a question in his voice as though there’s some hope that I’ll tell him otherwise, tell him that everyone is fine and it’s just a nightmare. The problem is that it is a nightmare _because_ it’s not a dream.  
  
I pull at my shirt sleeve until the seams at the shoulder rip and tie it around his leg, pants and all. When we find my family, Prim and my mother will be able to clean and care for it far better than I ever could.  
  
The dream comes back to me and with it the fear that my family, my parents, my sister, my daughter, were caught in one of those blasts. I can’t allow myself to think about that because for them to have made it out of the district safely is the only hope I have to cling to, and I have to get Peeta to safety, not give in to my fears and curl up in one of these trees to cry like I want. I have to believe that I’ll find them.  
  
“We should go, now,” I tell Peeta, slipping his hand in mine. He doesn’t move, staring at our hands, or more like staring through them. “Peeta, we have to go; we have to find Flower, remember?”  
  
He nods at that, but I’m not sure he’s fully here with me because his mind is still up on the hill where everything burns.  
  
The quickest route around the district to the meadow is northeast. The further we go, the thicker the smoke. It’s gritty and harder to breathe no matter how far east from the district we try to go. The wind’s blowing all of the smoke from the district in our path and there’s no other recourse but to take the longer route around.  
  
Heading back south, we keep close to the fence, but not too close. The explosions have long since stopped, but there’s a searing heat that radiates through the fence in waves.  
  
Peeta hasn’t said a word since we first left the hill, following me without question. His injured leg slows him down and his every step makes me cringe with how loud he is out here. I’m at half my natural pace so that he can keep up, and there’s absolutely nothing I can do about the noise he makes.  
  
The woods to the south of the district are almost as new to me as they are to Peeta. Having only been to this area outside of the district a couple of times—it was years ago in the days when I felt adventurous enough to see what was out here, to map out the other weak spots of the fence around the district—but not enough to feel comfortable navigating through them blindly. Our only option was to use the fence as our guide.  
  
There’s nothing left of the district but mounds of smoldering remains littering scorched ground. It’s what’s left of the houses in the Seam, I imagine, but I don’t want to think about what else is mixed with them. I sent my family ahead to be safe; I could have stopped door to door and warn every family inside those houses, but I didn’t. I was too worried about Peeta, about saving his life. There’s a feeling buzzing around my mind; it’s something I don’t want to think about so I shoo it away.  
  
To my left are the unfamiliar woods, however the trees at the edge look familiar somehow.  
  
Inside the fence there’s nothing but black and glowing red, and I know in that moment what they are…what they were: the tiny houses near the mines. This was where Peeta lived.  
  
That buzzing thought is there again, but this time there’s no ignoring it. Peeta could have been there if I hadn’t gone back for him or didn’t find him in time. I try not to let it show, but my body’s shaking at the thought. He could have…  
  
Unfortunately, the relief also comes with the guilt of not saving more people. I’ll always carry that around with me, but Peeta's alive and if faced with the same choice, them or him, I’d do it again.  
  
I push us forward, trying not to think about it anymore. The orange and blue sky turns inky by the time we come to the mines. In contrast to the Seam, this area is untouched. I can’t help but stare as we continue to walk, skirting near the fence. Unlike the Seam with its lingering blazes and glowing embers, it’s quiet enough here to hear a pin drop.  
  
A light shines from behind the slag heap a second before sounds of crunching steps follow. Instinctively, I pull Peeta behind the closest tree thick enough to hide his wide frame before we hear the distorted voices.  
  
People sealed from head to toe in metallic suits sweep the area with lights attached to their weapons. I can tell by their rigid poses and the way they hold their guns that they’re peacekeepers. Their lights reflect off of the metal mining carts as they search for something, but when I think about it, it’s probably someone. They’re looking for survivors.  
  
No one sane in the district would have chanced taking refuge in the mines because explosives could have ignited the coal dust and set them on fire. There are old stories of ever-burning coal mines, and who would think that’s safer than the bombs themselves?  
  
While watching them scour the area, perhaps there was someone clever enough to see that the Capitol wouldn’t destroy their key resource. There’s movement between two metal carts before the peacekeepers jump into action. They’re shooting, not bothering to talk to whoever it is trying to survive. Several bullets hit him the way his body jolts over and over until he drops to the ground. The peacekeepers surround the body and there’s one more shot that rings out and then the peacekeepers continue on as though it never happened, looking for the next survivor to be killed on sight.  
  
I shift my focus to Peeta and hold my finger to my lips, signaling that from here on we’re going to have to be as quiet as we can. With Peeta's leg and heavy tread, I’m not sure how we’re going to accomplish this.  
  
He gives me a nod and pushes off from the tree trunk, ready to follow me again. I take us a little more into the woods. We keep to the tree line with a cautious eye to the fence. It’s a fine line to walk to maintain as much tree cover as possible all the while staying close enough to keep the fence in view. We pass the train station at the edge of the mines and the tracks that lead to the next train station in town.  
  
All of it was ignored in the attack; all of it ready to restart production whenever the Capitol sees fit.  
  
Who would they find to work the mines? More than likely desperate souls from the other districts looking for a brand new start in life. Something tells me these new pioneers would never come from the Capitol.  
  
The tracks continue through the town station and out the fence through a closed gate guarded by six peacekeepers. Three patrol at either side of it with their lights sweeping around the edge of the woods without any particular target. The light that shines the closest to us sweeps through other areas of the woods quickly, the peacekeeper seemingly uninterested in his post.  
  
The woods split where the train tracks run through it. It’s open and leaves us vulnerable, but we have to cross it if we want to make it to the meadow. All of the light left is coming from what’s left of the district, so I take Peeta further into the woods and hope that the combination of distance and dark can help hide us from them.  
  
I take a step onto the pebbles and stones lining the tracks and am thankful for the distance. The large gravel is scratchy and crunchy and makes me almost as loud as Peeta where he’s even louder. I keep my eyes on the peacekeepers at the gate as we hunch down and cross. One of them lifts his head in our direction but we’re already at the other side, back in the dark cover of the tree line by the time the peacekeeper’s light shines on where we were.  
  
The devastation inside the fence begins again the moment we pass the tracks. The gate to the main road is closed shut and beyond the fence the road is covered in charred, smoldering rubble with the flicker of embers bright in the dark. Peeta sees it too and any hope he had left is extinguished. We get close to the fence again, and I see it. There’s something sticking out of the rubble and it takes another moment for me to realize it wasn’t a piece of wood as I originally thought, but an arm. It’s blackened just like everything else around it. And then the other shapes become more recognizable, more gruesome as it becomes apparent what they once were.  
  
The road’s layer of black are nothing but bodies fused together in one mass. My stomach clenches and nothing but liquid comes up because I haven’t eaten since lunch. Peeta just stands beside me, staring out as far as he can to the end of the road. It’s the road that leads to the Hob and branches off into the main road. As far as we can see, it’s covered in a blanket of what was once our neighbors, maybe friends, or worse, family.  
  
I lean on the tree closest to me and heave again. There’s nothing left in my stomach so it’s dry and hurts and I’m eager to get moving, to get away from this as fast as I can. Unfortunately, what we see beyond isn’t much different. The large pile of rubble can only be the mayor’s house, and I wonder if he, his wife, and daughter made it out somehow. He is the mayor, after all. I don’t want to think about Madge being among the gruesome layer of what was once living, breathing people.  
  
The barracks are just as bad, but I know the peacekeepers were evacuated before any harm could come to them.  
  
And then there’s the square. There’s nothing left of it except piles smaller than the mayor’s house. From this perspective, I can’t tell which building was which, but Peeta does. He holds his hands to the fence, fingers curled into the chain links as he stares. It takes me a moment, probably because I’m not as familiar with the town as he is, but I see where the old apple tree used to be, where the pig pen was not far from it. And then there’s what’s left of what used to be the bakery.  
  
We have to go, we have to leave before a peacekeeper finds us, but the other part of me understands. If I were staring at what’s left of my home, what could be the remains of my family, I wouldn’t want to hear how we have to go. I’d want time to mourn my past.  
  
As it is, I don’t have the luxury to allow him that.  
  
I turn his face to me, holding it there between my hands. “Peeta,” I whisper, even now trying to find the words.  
  
He’s eyes close and he nods. I let out a breath because I don’t have to tell him; he already knows we have to keep going.  
  
We pass the Victor’s Village, and just like the mines, it’s untouched. Looking at them, you could convince yourself that it really is all a nightmare and the bombings never happened, but then we pass the boundary of houses set aside for Hunger Games victors and the devastation continues. I shiver at the stark difference as dramatic as night and day.  
  
I’m sure the Capitol will splash images of our district throughout Panem complete with the houses still standing among the devastation. It will send the message that this was, make no mistake, because of our victor. He disrupted the games at least or betrayed our country at most. Either way, our district paid for his suicide.  
  
It continues this way for the rest of our walk. We use the dying light of the burned to keep us on the right path through the dark of night. We almost pass it, the meadow, because what were scraggly, gnarled trees and pathetic flowers are nothing but charred ground. It’s all gone.  
  
All I want is to look for some sign that my family made it past the fence, but it’s late, it’s dark, and Peeta doesn’t look like he can go much further. His leg;s been bothering him more and more since the Victors Village and he needs to rest.  
  
I head for the woods but Peeta doesn’t follow. “Isn’t this the meadow…was the meadow?”  
  
I nod and take his hand, “It’s too dark to find any sign of them. We’ll come back in the morning.”  
  
Reluctantly, he nods and follows me into the woods. The first stop is the old log where I stow my bow and arrows, and it feels good to have them with me again. In the woods without them I feel too naked, too exposed. This is familiar territory for me again, some much needed comfort.  
  
For Peeta, however, there’s no comfort in traveling farther and farther from the district. Each sound made by some critter makes him twitch and jump. We’re taught that there’s always something to be afraid of beyond the district, beyond the protection of the fence. I’ve encountered those dangers and survived, only to come back stronger. I’m not sure how I can assure him that he will too with my help.  
  
When we’re far enough from the fence, we stop. Peeta sits on the ground and draws his knees close to his chest while I settle in a spot between two tree roots, resting my back against the tree trunk. Without having to worry about immediate danger, I think about what to do when the sun comes up. The utmost priority is to go back to the fence and search for some sign of my family, some shred of hope that might keep me going.

* * *

I wake up screaming. Peeta's arms are around me like they were before, firm but not too tight, and his brows are scrunched. He reminds me of Flower which twists my gut thanks to the dream I’ve had.

“You were screaming. I tried to wake you,” he tells me while releasing me from his hold. He moves away, probably returning to his spot in the dirt with his knees pulled close to his chest. Judging by the dark circles underneath his eyes, he hasn’t slept yet. After the nightmare I had, maybe his way is better.

Still, I don’t want him to leave me; I need the comfort that came with his arms around me. “Please don’t. Stay,” I plead, reaching for his arm before he can get too far.

He doesn’t question my request, simply sliding back into place and wrapping his arms around me again. I drift back to sleep, and in that twilight between conscious and unconscious, his voice echoes, “Always.”

I have one more dream. It’s the same as it’s been but before the fire takes Prim, I feel strong arms around me and know that it’s Peeta. He reminds me that it’s just a dream, and it changes to something more pleasant. It’s simply a day in the meadow with my family.

The next time I wake, the sky isn’t inky anymore, but a bright, gentle shade of blue much like Peeta and Flower’s eye color. That thought makes me smile. The sun filters low through the trees and the birds chirp at the start of the day. Peeta's looking down at me and seems pleased with himself. “Better sleep?” he asks as though he already knows the answer.

“Yeah,” I say and pull myself away from him, stretching and already plotting how I’m going to inspect the fence at the meadow without any peacekeepers seeing me.

“Since I’m going too, I can look out for any.”

It should’ve been a given that Peeta would stay behind while I go, but to Peeta that particular part was up for debate.

“You can’t. If I’m caught, you’ll be caught too. At least out here you’ll have a chance,” I explain.

“I don’t even have a chance out here completely healthy. What chance do I have with a wounded leg without you?”

“You can keep going north, find my family, my mother and Prim…”

He’s about to say something but stops himself. The words are stuck somewhere in his throat even though his mouth is open and ready to say it. He doesn’t have to because we both know what it was. We both know that there’s a chance my family, and our daughter, didn’t make it out alive. There’s even a chance that no one did. We could very well be the only two from our district left alive.

For quite some time, we stand there staring at each other. Who would be the first to break?

Peeta quirks his brow as though daring me to believe he would. And just to give this contest between us a nudge in his favor, his adds, “She’s my daughter too. I have to know as much as you.”

I lower my eyes to the ground. He’s won.

At the edge of the woods, I climb one of the tallest trees and have a look at what we’re dealing with in the meadow. It’s worse than seeing it in the dark last night. Everything is black and gray with tendrils of smoke curling up from them. At least as far as the meadow, there’s no sign of life in sight. Even if peacekeepers were to enter the meadow, Peeta and I would have enough time to get to the fence and back to the woods with a few minutes to spare undetected.

As quick as his leg would allow, we cross the open distance between the fence and the woods. Having breathed the fresh, clean air in the woods, breathing in the air near the district’s a challenge. It’s heavy and sits at the back of my throat like it did yesterday. It’s not so bad that we can’t breathe, but it makes it hard to concentrate.

The gap in the fence is as it always was and there aren’t any tracks. My stomach tightens at what it means. They had a cart with them. There’s no way they would’ve been able to fit that cart through the narrow gap.

Peeta looks around but then his focus lands squarely on me. He knows I’m more likely to find the clues, to see the signs that they left the district in time. There’s no other answer I can give but shake my head because I think my entire world’s been destroyed in one day.

* * *

Walking to the lake, the same lake where my father taught me to swim, usually takes a couple of hours but with Peeta it takes almost a full day. There were several times we had to rest for his leg. He protested each time, assuring me that he could go a little farther, that he didn’t need the rest. it was obvious the way he wobbled and how his breathing got louder the longer we walked that the walk took its toll on him.

I’m not sure why he was so eager to get to the lake, though. It’s not like there’s anything for us here. All signs point to the fact that it’s just me and Peeta, that we’re the sole survivors of an entire district.

The first thing we do at the lake is drink. Inhaling smoke for most of the night and some this morning, not to mention the first drop to drink all day, we cup our hands and have our fill. The next order of business is to clean Peeta's wound.

If it were me, I’d just jump in the lake and swim to give the wound a good rinsing, but Peeta, like almost everyone in our district, can’t swim. He tries to walk into the water up to his thigh where the wound is, but when the silt at the bottom shifts under his feet and he's suddenly in deeper water and struggling to the surface. I dive in and swim to him. "Peeta, don't panic!" I call out but he can't hear me. I reach for his shirt, the handful I can get, and pull him back to shore. He's on his knees sputtering and shaking and I give him some time to recover before suggesting he go back in.

Since he refuses to go in the water deeper than his calves, cleaning his wound becomes a two person job. He spreads the pant leg apart where it’s ripped to give me better access to the wound but it’s no use. I can't rinse all of it, and Peeta's getting tired on his good leg.

“Take off your pants,” I tell him in frustration while rinsing what’s left of my sleeve covered in his blood.

His eyes are on me; I can feel them but can’t bring myself to look after demanding this. I tell myself that it has to be done, his leg has to be cleaned or it can become infected and then where would we be? But that doesn’t change the fact that I’ve told him to strip for me.

I hear him sit at the water's edge and listen to the rustle of his pants, then the light splashing sound as he lifts his feet to remove them fully. I finish rinsing my sleeve in the water and turn to him.

My breath catches in my throat. He’s still in his shirt and underwear but that doesn’t stop me from taking in every curve, every angle, every rounded…

“Katniss?”

His voice snaps me out of whatever trance I was in and reminds me of my task. The torn sleeve makes it easier to clean the wound by dabbing and squeezing water over it. It’s as clean as I can get it, unfortunately, all of our clothes are wet and there’s nothing dry to cover it with.

“We’ll cover it later. Just try to…” I begin to say to him but his attention is elsewhere. He’s more focused on the marsh area at the edge of the lake where the katniss flowers grow.

It’s easy to spot them with their arrow-shaped leaves and delicate white flowers, but there’s something else that doesn’t quiet fit. It's bright yellow and stands out.

He hisses, “Be careful,” the closer I get to it. His eyes are darting every which way as though he’s expecting a wild animal, or maybe several of them, to come out and attack. This isn’t an animal. In fact, the closer I get the more I’m sure of it.

If it’s what I think it is…no…it can’t be.

It is and my stomach plummets. If the dreams were a knife in the heart, this proof that they’re real is twisting it.

Peeta's beside me and his breathing falters until he drops down on his knees. “No,” he whispers to it, I’m sure he's hoping to will it away but it’s not going anywhere. Flower’s doll lays there as proof that they’d made it out of the district, but they were taken. They had to be taken. Flower would never willingly leave behind Cheese.

There’s something else that nags at me, and it isn’t until Peeta tries to pick up the doll that I stop him and take it all in.

“She was my daughter too,” he protests.

Was.

I close my eyes and think about it. The doll is laying in a bed of katniss flowers. Her yellow yarn hair is neatly tucked underneath her body which couldn’t happen if Flower just dropped her. No, the doll was left there with the utmost care.

“They’re alive.”

Peeta narrows his eyes at me. I’m sure he’s wondering if he should dare believe me and hope again. “How do you know that?”

“Look,” I point to Cheese. “Look how she’s arranged. She wasn’t dropped, she was placed there…in a bed of katniss flowers… _katniss_ flowers.”

He looks again, taking in the clues. They’re subtle, and I could very well be reaching, but it gives me renewed hope and I maybe it will for him too.

“You think she’s alive?” He’s afraid to believe me; it’s in his voice.

This is what it means; I can feel it. “She’s alive, Peeta,” I tell him, my hand reaching for his chest just over his heart, and when a smile breaks across his face, the same bright smile I never thought I’d see again after what happened to our district yesterday, I feel a little bit more hope that maybe things will be good again…someday.

It’s so quick that I don’t have time to prepare for it. Peeta takes me in his arms, pulling me close. I like it here with my cheek against his strong chest and my ear picking up the rapid beating of his heart. I’m so disappointed when he pulls away from me. “I’m sorry,” he apologizes with a shy smile before struggling to stand on his good leg.

“Don’t be,” I tell him because there’s no reason to be sorry. Our daughter’s alive. I feel the hope, I feel the relief, I feel that dandelion in the spring.

There’s a burn in my eyes, and I quickly wipe back the tears before holding the doll in my hand and bringing it against my cheek. She’ll be so happy to have Cheese back _when_ we find her, when we find them.

* * *

Peeta's practically naked behind me, and I can barely walk I’m so distracted.

His pants are still sopping wet and he volunteered his shirt to carry the katniss roots we dug up before leaving the lake. It’s slung over his bare shoulder like a sack as he limps through the woods. We had a lengthy argument on who would carry them. Peeta insisted that I needed my arms free for the bow and arrows just in case some wild animal attacked. I warned that the added weight would only put more strain on his good leg.

“I can argue all night, Katniss,” he told me, looking up at the position of the sun which was well past noon. He knew I wanted to leave, that I wanted to get to the small house way before sunset. It was the only way we were going to be able to cook the roots, and we hadn’t eaten all day or last night.

The irony wasn’t lost on me. That hollow feeling in my stomach was all the motivation I needed, and here was a boy who hadn’t missed a meal a day in his life ready to give up as many as it would take to win the argument. And he did when I surrendered with a disgruntled, “Fine.”

During the walk, my anger subsided which allowed other thoughts and feelings to barge into my mind. The way his muscles flexed with the weight of the makeshift sack caused me to stumble a few times. His perfectly sculpted abdominal muscles leading down… Two times Peeta had to suggest resting for my benefit because he thought I was tiring. I refused because all I wanted was to get to the small house, drop the katniss roots and have him put his shirt back on.

It doesn’t take long to get to the house, even with Peeta weighed down with a bad leg. I take note of where the sun is in the sky. It’s lower than I’d like, probably some time around five o’clock. Not an ideal time of day, but it may be enough time to scrounge up some meat for us to go with the katniss roots.

Inside, I realize that what’s left of this house is a little bigger than the tiny house Peeta lived in near the mines, although it barely has four walls and a roof. The chimney’s in good condition, though, better than anything else in this house.

He takes it all in while I start on building a fire. Over the years I’ve stored things here. When home felt too crowded, when I needed time to myself, I’d come here to think. It’s not much, just things my family wouldn’t miss like a bar of soap and an old knife. More importantly, there’s some wood kept dry in the corner on the slab floor. There's also some scraps of cheap fabric, the only fabric those from the Seam can afford. The kind that catches fire way too easily.

With each strike of the knife to the flint my father had found so many years ago, my frustration grows. We don’t need the fire for warmth, but we need it to cook the katniss roots and whatever meat I can get if given enough daylight left.

My hair is a mess, most of the front having come loose from my braid, and dangles in my view. It’s dangerous and even more aggravating which causes me to push it back behind my ears. I’m ready to pull it out.

“Let me.” Peeta's hand is over mine and his blue eyes are focused and clear and smiling. “I’m used to starting fires in the bakery’s ovens.”

The one thought leads to another. I can see it in his eyes, the way his brows dip down. The bakery ovens that are buried under the ruins of what was our district. I move my hand away and let him try for the fire. It’ll give him something to do, something to focus on all the while feeling that tie to what he’d lost.

“Then I’ll go hunt. We’ll need the meat.”

Peeta nods at that and gets back to work. The sparks flying from his efforts are brighter and far more robust than what I managed. It feels even more like a good idea as I leave the small house to go hunting.

* * *

One skinny, old rabbit's all I have when I get back to the small house. It’s not much, the meat's probably tough, but it’ll do for me and Peeta along with the katniss roots.

There’s a fire in the chimney. It’s not an inferno but it’s respectable for cooking. The only thing wrong is that I don’t see Peeta inside tending it. I don’t find him outside either.

“Peeta!” I call out, and nothing.

The next time I call out for him, my voice is tight and full of my mounting fear. I try to calm myself and reason that no predator would be interested in him. The smell of smoke would deter them, and the only thing that might make them venture against their instinct is meat and we had none.

I stand still, hoping to hear his heavy feet, but nothing. I rush through the woods not sure of what scares me more, what I may or may not find. Will I find him shot dead somewhere in the woods or will I find peacekeepers marching him off to whatever punishment awaits in the Capitol?

Did the peacekeepers find him? The fire is low, barely usable, but was it enough at dusk for them to find him?

“Peeta,” I say his name to myself because I think he might be gone already. He can’t be. We’re so close to finding Flower. He can’t be gone.

There’s a sound ahead of me, a splashing sound coming from the lake. I expect to see peacekeepers, but I don’t expect to see Peeta washing himself at the water’s edge.

A wave of relief washes over me, allowing me to catch my breath, but my eyes linger a little too long at the sight of him. I know I should turn away, give him his privacy, but when he wrings his shirt of the water, allowing the muscles to ripple, I can’t help but watch.

He throws the shirt over a tree limb and lathers his body using the soap he must’ve taken from the small house. The foam coats his well-muscled arms all the way to his wide shoulders. My stomach tightens and my mouth goes dry. When we were sixteen and together, I didn’t appreciate how beautiful he is. I didn’t want to. My thoughts were on my needs, my curiosity, protecting my heart.

But now, looking at him in the waning light I feel foolish.

In the Capitol, they say there are paintings and sculptures hundreds of years old, and that there’s a reason why they’ve lasted so long. People saw the beauty in them, people have spent a fortune and some even risked their lives to protect them, to possess them. And here I am with my own work of art that I gave up so easily.

He lowers his hands to clean fully and I turn my body quickly, slamming my back against the nearest tree trunk and close my eyes shut. In my haste, I made more noise than I ever do in the woods.

“Katniss?” Peeta calls out. “Is that you?” He’s nervous. It’s all in his voice.

I take a deep breath and reveal myself from behind the tree. Peeta's underwear are back on and he's holding a long stick where the end of it’s been whittled into a point. He made a spear for his protection and I feel a strange swell of pride. It’s replaced quickly with thoughts I shove to the side when his muscles along his arms, shoulders and thighs flex as he eases from a protective stance.

His facial features relax at the sight of me, and he chuckles. “I thought it was a bear or something.”

“A bear wouldn’t want anything to do with you. You have no food.” I offer an easy smile and he returns with an amused one.

“Ah,” he says before picking up his clothes draped on the tree limb. “I just wanted to wash up. Don’t know when I’ll get the chance again.”

“Sure,” I tell him, because I understand that. “I guess I should wash up too.”

He nods. “I’ll give you some privacy, then,” he tells me heading back towards the small house. When he passes me, my hand, of it’s own volition, reaches for his arm. I push my body close to his and taste his lips. He gives in so easily to me, my tongue's free to explore his mouth. He tastes so sweet, sweeter than that night when we were sixteen, and I’m thirsty. It's the kind of thirst that’s been building without me knowing until now I can’t get enough no matter how much I drink of him.

Peeta pulls back. “It’s just the excitement of knowing they’re alive,” he says, but I’m not sure which one of us he’s trying to convince.


	20. Without Prying Eyes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've mentioned it before and I'll mention again, this story was rated E for a reason.
> 
> With that out of the way, while driving, the song "[It's Not Over](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UQ92eyxnxmQ)" by Daughtry came on. Listening to the beat and the lyrics, I think it sums up this Peeta closer than any other song I've come across. Not to mention, the video's close to the main threads of this story. Not exactly the same but close.
> 
> These songs were a huge help in the making of this 6000+ word chapter:  
> "[Bad Intentions](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Rr7YO-fhmWc)" by Niykee Heaton  
> "[Breathe Me](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SFGvmrJ5rjM)" by Sia

Hip-deep in the water, I wash with the soap from the small house and then throw it back to shore. A good swim is the easiest way to rinse. The water feels good against my body, the waves are like gentle caresses against my skin. This makes me think of Peeta. The problem is since we escaped our district and learned that my family, that our daughter made it out of the district alive, there’s little else I’ve been able to think about other than Peeta.  
  
My lips still tingle, reminding me of how they were pressed against his only minutes ago. I lick them in some absurd hope that I can taste him again. Memories of the very first time I felt them, first tasted them flood back, when we were sixteen and in the meadow that no longer exists. Even though they were urgent and needful, they were also gentle, reverent. The warm bulk of his body against mine, his hands exploring every curve of my skin as though he were trying to commit everything to memory, it felt good. Alone in the lake, alone with my thoughts, I can admit that it all felt so good until…  
  
It hurt so much when he pushed inside me. I bit my lower lip to keep from crying out in pain only for it to come out in whimpers, which only seemed to speed his movements. All in all, it ended up being a good thing because he finished not long after.  
  
Catching his breath to the side of me, I was sore and disappointed and the last thing I wanted to hear was an empty proposal of marriage from a town boy. It was salt in an already painful wound.  
  
No matter how tempted I was to believe it, I couldn't give the thought of him and me together more than a minute. “It’s not real, Peeta, and we both know it.” I spoke aloud that cold, honest truth, at least what I thought was the truth. His reaction was immediate: eyes shining and brows lifted helplessly. At the time, I'd misread it as nothing more than disappointment that his little rouse didn’t work. Looking back on it, remembering every detail of his face, I see it for what it was. I’d hurt him. That sixteen year old town boy was ready to give up all of his comforts and live in the Seam, work in the mines…for me. I remind myself that I was protecting myself, that I had good reason not to believe him. I can't count the many Seam girls with their hearts broken, some having to seek my mother's help with the only thing those boys from town gave them. Even so, guilt settles in deep.  
  
The muscles in my arms and legs start to burn telling me that swimming is taking its toll on me, so I relax and let my body float along the surface. It feels good feeling weightless with nothing but thick clusters of stars above me. The smoke from the remains of our district are blowing east leaving this northern sky clear.  
  
The stars remind me of that night. They were how they are now, bright and twinkling and the strangest thing is that my memory's changed somehow. The pain I felt doesn’t seem as sharp. When I remember his scent, my heart flutters. When I remember the sounds he’d made, my skin tingles and there’s a sudden and undeniable throb between my legs. I must be crazy, but I want to try again. I want to feel Peeta’s feather light touches and his kisses. I crave his arms around me and his skin against mine and my name on his lips.  
  
I should return to the small house, to where the food needs to be cooked, back to where Peeta’s waiting. Part of me wants nothing more than to see him again, but the other part of me fears going back and seeing him will arouse these strange thoughts and reactions in my body that I’m barely able to grapple with as is. Even now I struggle to push away the memory of him washing in the shallow water near the shore, the liquid cascading over his thigh leaving it moist and glistening…  
  
I drag myself to shore and rest on my hands and knees as I desperately suck in air. I haven't breathed in water, but it feels as though I have. My lungs feel tight and burn with each inhale. It hits me hard, my own cold, honest truth: he’s no longer something that I want like that night when we were sixteen and I was curious. I need him as much as I need food and air and water, and it scares me.

* * *

It’s almost completely dark by the time I make it to the small house, and the only light comes from the small fire inside flickering soft orange light against black shadows. There’s one large shadow that moves, catching my attention. It’s Peeta’s and I’m suddenly very aware of how exposed I am. Wearing nothing but my shirt—my pants were difficult to slide on over my wet skin—I pull at the lower hem as far to my knees as I can, but the best I get is for it to cover my underwear.  
  
I mutter to myself how silly I’m being and hold my head up, square my shoulders and walk into the house with the shreds of confidence I can muster. Over and over I repeat to myself that it’s the practical thing to do. I have to cook the food and I don’t have any other pants to wear. Besides, he’s already seen me without clothes, except that particular train of thought doesn’t help. There’s a sudden rush of heat to my face.  
  
Not that it matters. Nothing I can tell myself helps after catching him staring my way the moment I step past the threshold. His mouth opens as his gaze starts from my head and works its way down until he closes his eyes and mouth and swallows hard.  
  
Not that I don’t have a similar reaction seeing him in only his underwear again. His shoulders are wide and corded with muscles that span his back, his arms, his chest. The muscles in his abdomen are just as hard and defined. His legs are strong and thick, and I remember how warm and sturdy they felt between my thighs. That particular thought should sober me, but instead it makes me a little light-headed and sends heat rushing through my body until I feel my pulse everywhere. And even in this shape I'm in, I can't help but continue to absorb the sandy hairs along his forearms. It's the same along his chest, a fine dusting of those hairs that tapers into a sandy line that starts to thicken below his navel.

I squeeze my eyes shut as I realize with horror where my eyes were going, but it doesn't shut out the thoughts that come unbidden.  I can't believe I'm considering sex again, as though the more I try it, the better the outcome. With a disgusted, frustrated groan, I roll my eyes at myself and go straight to the food near the fire.  
  
“Can you put your shirt on?” I ask over my shoulder for good measure.  
  
He doesn’t say a word as he comes near me to reach for his shirt. It's hung on a chip in the bricks above the fireplace and his pants are hung on another. The brick and mortar are worn and little grooves are easy to find to hang my pants on as well. I place my shoes near his on the floor close to the fire but not too close. The katniss roots are already propped up against the coals. “I didn’t know how to cook them," Peeta tells me, "so I put them next to the fire the way we cook potatoes in the bakery…"

I freeze and turn to him, catching him wince before he shakes his head and corrects himself. "Used to cook potatoes.”

What's unsaid is that it's all gone now. The bakery, his childhood home, and more than likely his family are gone. For a moment, I consider offering him some hope. Gale stayed in town. Maybe he was able to warn some people there…maybe even the baker and his family.  
  
Peeta’s already shuffling away from me to the corner under a window before I decide not to mention Gale. It’s a chance, but it’s a slim chance at best. The Hawthorne boys never struck me as being all that sympathetic to those from town.  
  
The rabbit's ready for cooking, I'd made sure of that before my bath, but how do I cook the thing over the fire without charring it?  
  
“You can use this.” Peeta struggles to get up and offers his crude spear as a makeshift spit, and I take it without fully facing him. It’s hard to look him in the eye with so many thoughts crowding my mind about him. The problem is that I don’t have to look at him to know how warm his arms are or how delicious that basic scent of him can be. I don’t have to look at him to feel that tingle spread throughout my entire body.  
  
“Thanks,” is all I say because it’s safe, and I can’t trust myself when he’s so close.  
  
I hear him shuffle away again, the sound of his gait an unsteady rhythm thanks to his injured leg.  
  
The spear’s the perfect size to skewer the rabbit.  I rest the meat over the fire and sit back to wait for the food to be ready. I pull my knees up to my chest and wrap my arms around them, staring at the dancing flames. The way they flick and whirl make no sense which pretty much describes my thoughts when it comes to Peeta. I rest my chin on my knees and try to think of tomorrow: what needs to be done. Which direction should we go to find them? What will we need for an extended search for my family? Food and water are our top priority.  
  
We found Cheese, the only sign of them, north of our district. And then I remember Peter’s last words: “District 13.” Would they try to reach the ruins of District 13?  
  
It’s my best guess, and at least for now, that settles which direction. The several brooks and streams in the area will take care of water. That just leaves food. Our meal of one rabbit and katniss roots isn't going to be enough for however long we'll be out here. We'll need more food to find my family. Enough to feed six mouths until I can hunt again. A thought works its way to the fore of my mind, but I try to push it away. It’s the unsettling realization that my family won’t have a hunter with them, but I have to believe that they have the next best thing. The combined plant knowledge of my parents will keep them alive long enough for us to find them. It has to.

I relax, sure of my parents' ability to identify the edible plants out here. Unfortunately, with that settled, my thoughts are freed which inevitably leads back to one thought: Peeta.  
  
I remember his warmth when he took me in his arms after we found Cheese in the katniss flowers. His lips were so soft when I kissed him at the lake. And again, I think of that night in the meadow when Peeta held me close and moaned my name. That part of it wasn’t unpleasant at all.  
  
I sneak a look over at him now curled up in the corner, staring out the window.  
  
Every two or three minutes I check the food, whether the juices of the rabbit seep red, or if the skins of the katniss roots give to the tip of the knife. It’s a much needed distraction, and I’m almost disappointed when the meat releases it’s juices without blood and the skin of the katniss roots give easily. My stomach, however, doesn't share my sentiment, growling in anticipation.

I mutter, “Done,” for Peeta to come and claim his portion.  
  
We’re hungry, so hungry that the rabbit is nothing but bones and there’s only two katniss roots left. There's no question we'll need more food for the search for my family. I'll have to hunt tomorrow, delaying our search for a day. In the meantime while hunting, I can look for clues, any sign of them while I'm out, though. The area of the woods surrounding the small house and lake is a great start.  
  
Peeta places the last of his share of rabbit, now nothing but bone, in the pile with the rest and leaves quietly. He hasn’t said much to me, only what he needs to, but now he won’t even look at me. He quietly returns to his spot under the window while I curl up on the floor next to the fire. The sound of crackling and the occasional pop and sizzle of dried wood sap in the fire mingling with the chorus of frog croaks and chittering sounds by those strange, large hard-shelled bugs outside lull me to sleep.

* * *

I bolt up screaming. The details of the nightmare fade as fast as I try to remember them. Peeta’s holding me, his arms wrapped around my shoulders as he murmurs reassuring words that don’t register in my mind, but the sound of his voice and his soft tone do. Whatever scared me has already disappeared with the fog of sleep, but the fear lingers as strong as it did before I woke up.  
  
Whether or not I’ll be able to go back to sleep is a question I can’t answer so I pull away from him to scrub my face with my hands. Peeta shifts beside me, bending the knee of his uninjured leg so that he can rest his arm on it.  
  
I slide back down onto the floor to try and go back to sleep because I’ll need to start hunting very early in the morning if I'm to cook all of the meat tomorrow.  
  
Peeta silently goes back to the corner he’s claimed under the window.  
  
The fears from my dream are still there, squatting deep and well inside me, telling me that it may not be real but it could be. It’s a feeling of loss, so similar to what I felt with those dreams of watching my family die before my eyes. Even though I can’t remember the details, I do know that it wasn’t the same dream. This one had something to do with Peeta. I turn my head to assure myself that he’s alive and well before I try to go back to sleep.  
  
No matter how much or how long I try, I can’t. I need to know everything will be better. I need comfort. I need his comfort. My instincts ignore my rational mind, and I turn to face Peeta. He’s still awake, and I’m not sure if he’d fallen asleep at all.  
  
His long, blond eyelashes absorb the moonlight from the window and his skin almost glows in it.  
  
I quietly lift myself up and cross the space, sitting next to him shoulder to shoulder. At first, he doesn’t move, every muscle in his body tensing, but then I feel him slowly relax just before his arm lifts and rounds my shoulders.  
  
He feels so warm and the added heat should feel uncomfortable in this summer weather, but it feels good. His skin is smooth and the weight of his arm is welcome.  
  
Still staring out the window, there’s no telling what he sees out there. Or is he looking inward?

The way his chest expands and contracts against me makes mine move a little more rapidly. My breaths are getting ahead of me as I struggle to take in more air. The sound must catch his attention because he turns to face me and I do it. My lips overtake his, claiming them as my territory. Like before, he yields to me quickly, allowing me to explore his mouth and furthering my claim.

It’s not enough. When I think of his warmth, I want to be covered in it, bathed in it while I smell nothing but his scent. How can it ever be enough? The more I taste, the more I want until I crawl onto his lap with his face held firmly between my hands and his warm mouth open to mine.

He pulls away long enough to ask, “Katniss? What is…” but I don’t let him finish. I want his lips again; they taste so sweet. I want our bodies closer so I shift my hips against him and crawl up his legs the rest of the way.

It happens so fast.

My thigh grazes the wound on his bare thigh and he cries out against my lips. I’d forgotten about his wound and I jump up and away from him, and I'm quickly replaced by his hand on his thigh as he shuts his eyes tightly. He’s in pain, and it’s all my fault. The guilt and shame for my brazen behavior washes over me, but it’s the blood that makes me push whatever I’m feeling to the side. It oozes between his fingers and for the first time I realize he didn't have my shirt sleeve wrapped around it. Some time after washing in the lake it must have clotted only for me to open it again.

I pull at the other sleeve of my shirt until the seams rip and immediately wrap it around his leg. He's staring at me the whole time, but I can't bring myself to look up and face him, especially when I'm done and have nothing more to busy myself with. I'm more than ready to slink back to my space on the floor closer to the fireplace.  
  
Before I can lift myself fully, Peeta has his hand around my wrist. “Katniss, what was that?”

His breaths are heavy bursts, and I can’t tell if he’s recovering from our kiss or my fumble.  
  
There’s a chill sweeping through me even in this warm summer air, and my legs give and fold underneath me. He releases me when it's clear I'm not going anywhere, so I wrap arms around myself and stare at the floor  because I can't face him. How can I tell him what I’m feeling if I can’t put it all into words? It’s not the same as when we were sixteen, when I’d set out to do something and I did it. Then, all I wanted was to satisfy my curiosity, but tonight, I _need_ him. I _need_ his warm skin against mine. I _need_ his lips to my lips. This need is all fire, wild and so far beyond my control, and the more I’m around him, the hotter and brighter it seems to grow.  
  
Peeta narrows his eyes and searches my face intently. He’s looking for something, but can’t seem to find it. “Katniss,” he says my name between hard breaths, “is this...real?”  
  
Real? The word repeats itself in my head over and over. The last time I started this, I used that very word to hurt a boy who wanted nothing more than to love a Seam girl. A boy who wanted nothing more than to marry her and have children with her and would willingly move to the Seam and become a miner for them. I was so sure of it when I said the words: “This isn’t _real_ , and we both know it.”  
  
Real? I can’t blame him for asking; he has every right. I tried to convince myself that he was like every other boy from town, that he only wanted one thing from a Seam girl. That he didn’t care how I felt. That was when I thought I could protect myself from feeling anything for the boy with the bread, but I’ve since realized that both were wrong. He did want more, and I could never keep him out of my heart.  
  
My mouth hangs open slightly, and it takes some effort but I manage to whisper a single word that I can only hope he'll understand how much it means: “Real.”

Does the one word describe how confused I am when I think of him? Does it explain how I can't keep running away from this, whatever it is, between us? Does it lay out everything I can't put into words?  
  
The tiny light of the dying fire flickers off of the moisture forming in his eyes before he squeezes them shut. At first, I think he may reject me and feel the urge to run from him, from this small house in the woods and hide, but I can't because I can't run away from this. I've tried.

When his eyes snap open and meet mine, there's something about them that forces the air from my lungs all at once. In those blue eyes, there's a blaze. It's not a fire like mine, but his own kind that, come to think of it, I haven’t seen in years. It’s probably been kept low and smoldering, all but snuffed out by a sixteen year old girl trying desperately to protect herself. Where mine can quickly become an inferno capable of ravaging every corner of these woods, his is a home fire, steady and sure, and each crackling flame whispers home.  
  
My breaths come quick and shallow and I part my lips for more air which draws his attention to them for a moment before they’re leveled with mine again. Peeta leans forward, his cupped hand makes contact with my cheek a moment before his lips meet mine. Only when they part again do I realize I’ve crawled close to him, sitting by his right leg to avoid the wound on his left.  
  
So little distance between us, I can feel the warmth of his breath over my lips. I close my eyes and ready myself for another kiss, but instead, his hands grip my waist. The next thing I know, I’m pulled and turned until I’m nestled beside him with his arm around me.  
  
His face nuzzles against the crown of my head before he gives it a kiss, and I settle into him because this is comfort, too. I have his warmth, his skin against mine, and his kisses.  
  
“I’m sorry about Mattie,” he says softly but I'm still startled by his words. “Louise was her best friend’s little sister, and they grew up together ever since Louise's family moved to District Twelve. Louise was like a little sister to Mattie, or so she told me. All I wanted was to support Mattie during that time. I didn’t think she would treat you that way, and I never dreamed she'd have other plans…that she'd plot with my mother...” His voice tightens at the mention of his mother until he can't finish the thought. Instead he simply says, "I'm sorry."  
  
I nestle into his side. Mattie, along with the social expectations and pressures of our district feel like a lifetime ago. They might as well have been burned in the ashes now that our district's destroyed.

“I’d rather not talk about Mattie." I nestle further into his arms. "And as for your mother, at least it was some proof of accepting Flower…in her own way.” I try to keep my words light-hearted, but it’s hard to sidestep the present and past tenses to avoid what we’re both thinking: Mrs. Mellark and the rest of Peeta’s family were more than likely buried in the layer of ash and char.  
  
“Yeah,” he agrees, but his voice breaks only confirming that it’s true, it’s on his mind as well.

The sounds of the dying fire are almost drowned out by the frogs and the large bugs outside. They seem happy and full of their strange songs and with Peeta around me, his scent filling my nose, I could almost forget the horrors of the last couple of days.

I trail my fingers along the back of his hand and forearm dangling from my shoulder. In my mind, each inch I cover marks him as mine.  
  
“What about Peter?” he asks and my fingers still. His question seems to come out of nowhere, but the tension in his voice and for him to bring up Mattie earlier means that it was on his mind longer than a moment.  
  
“You seemed so upset about him. Did you know him?” he expands his question, but his voice is unsteady this time as though whatever control he's trying to maintain is breaking.  
  
“I thought it was you. I thought I’d heard your name called,” I force out because I have to be as honest as he’s being with me. I can’t hide anymore.  
  
His body twists into me and his head is tilted low to catch my eyes. Although I know I have to be honest, the truth hanging out there makes me feel more exposed than sitting in a small, old house in nothing but a shirt and underwear. Insistent that our eyes meet, he takes my chin with his two fingers and lifts my head up.  
  
It’s hard to meet his eyes, but he all but wills me to do it.  
  
“Real?” he asks, and I nod tentatively.

His lips brush mine and then trap my lower lip between them. His tongue sweeps across it before releasing it, but I don’t want him to release my lip. Parting with him feels wrong.  
  
His forehead presses against mine and his brows scrunch in frustration even though relief's written all over his face. “Katniss, I’m afraid,” he admits to me in a ragged breath.  
  
“Why are you afraid?”  
  
“I…I made the mistake of going too fast…before. And where did that get me? A daughter I didn’t know about and the woman I’ve loved most of my life thinking I was using her for sex.”  
  
My arms slip around his neck and I kiss him; it's just a brush of my lips against his. I shake my head because he's wrong. “We have a beautiful daughter who adores you," I stop and lightly chuckle at the thought, "more than me most days." I pull my chest against his. "And this won't be just sex for me.”  
  
His eyes snap to mine at that, and they're brimming with so many emotions, I can't identify all of them. But there is wonder and joy and something that's similar to when snared prey is set free.  
  
“Maybe I'm the one who should be afraid. How can I compete with all of the girls you’ve been with?” I mumble, suddenly aware of how there were plenty of girls in our district smarter, prettier, shapelier, more experienced. How could I compete with so many?  
  
He presses his brow to mine and his breaths come quick as though he's been running and shakes his head. “Katniss, you still don’t get it. Not one of them could compete with you. Ever.”  
  
There's the tingle throughout my body and the sting in my eyes and the flush of heat along my skin. My lips fuse with his because in that very moment I know that it’s where they belong. I pour everything I am into the connection and hope that he can feel it. At sixteen, the thought that Peeta Mellark could really love me was unthinkable, but what was even more unthinkable was to know that two years later we would have a daughter and I would love him too.  
  
My shirt slips up and over my head and I lean in for another kiss only to have him pull away from me. I’m ready to protest but the words catch in my thought at the sight of him lifting his shirt over his head. His hair is silver and his broad shoulders and thick, muscled torso are haloed by the moonlight at his back from the window. I’m left dumbfounded by just how beautiful he is.  
  
And then his lips are back to mine with more fervor than before. I match his intensity with my tongue against his, some desperate fight to control and submit, although which role we take I don’t quite know.  
  
His lips leave and I fight the urge to take his face in my hands and bring him back to me until I feel the soft touch of his lips along my chin following the curve to my throat. It’s sensitive there and his touch is like fire and lightning and I’m pretty sure this is his turn to mark every inch of me as his. I close my eyes and allow it because I am his.  
  
There’s a trail of kisses over my collarbone and down to my breast. His tongue swipes at the skin, slowly making its way to the peak and when he reaches it, there’s a jolt that lifts my chest up and off the slab floor. I breathe his name, and his answer is to latch his mouth to my nipple. My breath  is sucked from my lungs and the jolt comes over and over as his tongue flicks at the peak encircled by his lips.  
  
There's a pressure building that's threatening to fill me up until I explode or die from it. I’m lost in it, lost in the feel of him and the scent of him, and the sight of his hair and shoulders in the moonlight.  
  
So I’m confused when he continues down my body, his lips and tongue following the curves of my ribs and belly until he stops at my edge of my underwear. They slide down with little assistance from me before he’s between my legs and his breaths are deep and hot against my inner thigh. Each feathering of his lips against my skin makes me tremble and my belly contract.  
  
And then there’s the slide of something warm and slick along the length of my center and I squirm. It’s too much and not enough all at once. When it happens again, my eyes roll back and I give up trying to make sense of it or control what it's doing to my body, what he's doing to my body because there’s no way I can control it. And then he finds a particularly sensitive area, teasing and stroking with what I can only guess is his tongue, and I think I might die after one more flick, one more stroke or swirl. But I don't. Instead, the pressure continues to build and I feel so full that I know I’ll explode if he continues. Part of me wants to scramble away to protect myself from what can only end in my demise. But there’s another part of me that wants to see this through, to reach the end with Peeta.  
  
There’s something at my core that slowly slips inside me and along with his tongue's continued assault on the extremely sensitive flesh, my legs begin to shake. Sounds are torn from my lips that don’t really sound like me. They sound wild and bold and free until suddenly and all at once the pressure releases. It spreads throughout my body in waves.  
  
Peeta sits up on his knees and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. He looks glorious with the moonlight at his back and me on his lips, even with the surprised yet smug grin on his face. I reach out my arms for him because I don't want him so far away from me.  
  
Quickly, he slides his underwear down, now as naked as I am, and accepts my welcoming arms. My legs were already open for him, but when I pull them up to wrap around his hips, he hisses as my right leg grazes his wound. My mouth is open, ready for a stream of apologies, but before I can get even one out, he finds a fix for the situation by pushing my right leg up higher so that it curls around his waist while my left leg hooks around his hip.

He slides himself up and down my center with slippery ease and with a quick adjustment with his hand, he's there but doesn't move. There's more than a flicker of doubt there, and I don't want him to doubt this, to doubt us. We've spent enough time warring with that beast, so I take his face between my hands and force him to look at me. “Real,” I remind him, with all of my conviction, and I startle myself with how much is there.

It's enough because he nods and his hips tilt forward tentatively.  
  
I brace myself for the pain as he slides himself forward, but the pain never comes. Each thrust forward goes a little bit deeper, and still, no pain. It feels strange to accommodate him, but instead of pain, it feels good. It starts to build that pressure in my lower belly again. And now that I know where this will take me, I push my hips to meet his. We stumble to a rhythm that's urgent and desperate for what we’re both working towards. It comes fast this time and ripples throughout my body just before Peeta suddenly pulls away from me.

The world feels too cold, too harsh without his warmth and I want him back, but I'm so lost in this feeling of soft waves and cloud-like high that I don't fight it. My eyes are closed, but I hear him panting hard before he moans my name that's strangled and raspy between hard breaths. And then warm liquid hits my cooling skin which makes it feel almost hot. It pools in the dip of my navel.

I open my eyes to find him kneeling, slumped forward and still holding himself right before he collapses beside me, catching his breath as I continue to ride this waves of pleasure. Now I know what all the fuss was about and can’t rein in the smile that spreads across my face, not that I want to.  
  
Peeta takes his shirt and wipes off the liquid from my belly. I give him a questioning look and he half smiles at me with some color blooming in his face in the soft, white light of the moon. “After we found out about Flower, my oldest brother told me to do that to avoid another baby." He looks away, not quite able to face me. "With the way things were between us and the...problems...I was having, didn’t think I’d ever have a reason to listen to him, so I barely listened. I’m glad I did, though.”  
  
I take his words in, but there's one thought that stands out. Another baby. Even as his arm drapes over me and pulls me close to him, I think about how easily I’d forgotten about that…again. How Peeta seems to make me forget everything rational and reasonable. If he hadn’t thought about that detail, I might have gotten pregnant again, and that’s no condition to be in while in the woods without a home.  
  
I surprise myself when I realize that other than that, the thought doesn't bother me so much. If we find a way to live through this, perhaps find what's left of District Thirteen and make a stable home, forgotten by the Capitol and its reapings, another Flower with his bright, warm smile doesn’t seem so scary. The loss of our entire district, his family, holed up in this tiny house gives me time to see us as we are. He’s not a boy from town, and I’m not a girl from the Seam. In his arms, without the eyes of our district or even my family waiting to judge our every move, our every decision, I can admit that he and I were inevitable.  
  
My eyelids droop so I curl closer into him, resting my head on his chest. His heartbeats are starting to slow and make for a steady drum beat against the chorus of frogs and bugs outside. It's a sweet lullaby, and with his arms around me, there's no way I can stay awake. This is where I was always meant to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you saw the note I posted before, you know that I had trouble with this chapter but not in the usual way with my muse going on strike. This had more to do with their level of intimacy and where it needed to be for the coming events. Each time I wrote this chapter, it felt either forced or dragging from where they had to be. This version, I think, has them at the proper level as well as doesn't seem too forced.
> 
> I'll confess, I'm always nervous about posting a new chapter but this is a huge nail biter for me. It's my first true everlark sex scene and I really hope I've done justice to these characters and what they feel. If I didn't, I'm sure you guys will let me know. In fact, I'm counting on it.
> 
> Oh, and since the note will be taken down, I want to use this space to thank every one of you for your comments, kudos, and bookmarks. Over 500, people. Miracles can happen!


	21. In the Morning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The very first thing I want to say is thanks so very much to each and every person that left a supportive message for me, whether here or over at FF.net. It was a little overwhelming to tell the truth. Sorry I couldn't thank each one of you, but there were a lot and I think my fingers would've cramped up. Still, you guys are amazing and honestly (as I've said) a huge part of why I'm giving this another go.
> 
> This chapter is more of a setup for the events coming. I didn't want to post this chapter until I had at least half of the next chapter written (just to make sure it wasn't a fluke). Also, I've created an image for this story (creating the images for my stories was one of my ways I took a breather). If you have the time, feel free to go to the first page and take a look. I have some notes on the creation of that image as well. By all means, please let me know what you guys think.

The warble of those little brown birds wakes me before the sun rises fully. I usually despise them. Tread anywhere near their communal nests and those wretched things descend on you as one pecking unit. I've had more than my fair share of attacks which is why I hunt them as soon as I hear their song.  
  
This morning is different, though. Their calls are less menacing, more melodic, and serenade me sweetly.  
  
My head rests on a broad chest, my ear to a heart that adds a steady drumbeat to the melody just as it did the night before. Then the rise and fall of it changes, quickens, and I know Peeta’s awake. I’m reluctant to lift my head from him, but I do and turn to find him staring.  
  
“Good morning.” As gravelly as his morning voice is, it can't hide the contentment in it. His fingers pace a single line lazily along my arm.  
  
“Good morning,” I offer back with a sniffle, blinking sleep from my eyes.  
  
His fingers suddenly stop, and his hand falls from my skin, withdrawing his arm from me completely.  
  
“Do…” He stops to clear his throat and swallows hard, “do you, um…”  
  
I wait for him to collect his thoughts.  
  
“Do you regret…”  
  
He gives up, exhaling in frustration while his head lands back to the floor with a thump. His other hand lifts to rake his fingers through the hair at his forehead, ending in a tight pull. It takes a minute for me to piece together the words and decipher what he's trying to ask: he thinks I’m going to tell him that it was a mistake, that it was all a mistake and wasn’t real.  
  
How can it not be real? I remember each touch, each kiss and the way they made me feel…the way he makes me feel. I’ve been hunter, daughter, sister, even mother, but this is something different, something private: Iover.  
  
It's a secret part of me that I've only shared with Peeta and he's the only person I want to share this with. The very thought makes me smile, and I dip down to bring my lips to his.  
  
He tastes like warm honey.  
  
His hands come to cradle my head between them snugly and they push me up gently, just enough to create a space between us. Our lips parting feels wrong and unfair. I open my eyes and am greeted with his own smile, his eyes dancing with the hint of moisture forming in them. With questioning eyes, he whispers my name so softly I barely catch it.  
  
It's one last confirmation as though he’s afraid he may have imagined my kiss meant exactly what it was intended to confirm.  
  
I nod my head above him, tendrils of my hair that have slipped out of my braid sway. His hands, still holding my head in them, tremble. He lifts his head as he pulls me to him the rest of the way with his hands.  
  
Once in school, our teacher demonstrated a couple of bars of strange metal she called magnets. Our entire class looked on in amazement as the two snapped together whenever they were close. They were passed through the class so that each of us could experience the pull they had for each other. Keeping them apart was almost impossible if they were close enough.  
  
Our lips aren’t any different. They fuse together the moment they're only inches apart, drawn together like magnets. His scent fills my nose and I can taste his heat through his lips that press forcefully against mine and his tongue that invades my mouth. I’m lost in him.  
  
We part long enough for us to breathe, hard puffs of air blowing the rogue strands of hair from our foreheads. I’m mesmerized by how bright red his lips are, and all I want is to catch them, capture them and declare them as mine. When he covers my lower lip with both of his, I can’t take it anymore.  
  
His lips are mine. His body is mine. It’s all I can think about as my leg slides across him until I’m straddling his waist pressing our still bare chests together and move my body to align our hips. My fingers slip between us, nestled in the soft, blond curls trailing down his abdomen. It’s almost as though something has taken over me, something that’s all need and impulse.  
  
Peeta wraps his arms around me and squeezes me close, too close to slide my hand further, and turns his face to the side away from me so that I can’t taste the swell of his bottom lip or his warm tongue.  
  
“Katniss,” he whispers in my ear and I shiver at the desperation in my name, “we have to stop.” His protest sounds feeble, a slight groan that does nothing to support his words, and only feeds the needful thing in me that demands I nuzzle the tip of my nose against his earlobe and for my tongue to reach out for that dangle of flesh.  
  
This time my name comes out more strangled with the press of his hips up to mine. He’s firm between us and while still naked, it would be so easy to slide back just a little and tilt my hips at just the right angle. I’m chasing that feeling from last night, the feel of him inside me where he belongs. How did this happen? How did this become something I enjoy, that I crave?  
  
The questions wash through my mind, leaving as quickly as they come because I have no time for them. I’m so close to that feeling and begin to push myself down his body, angling my hips enough to...  
  
There’s a sound that comes from him, a cry of frustration tempered with determination. “Katniss,” he says my name as firmly as he takes my hips in his hands, “not now.”  
  
I blink while our eyes meet. His are bright blue and shining bright, the resolve in them stops me cold. For a second, I believe that voice deep inside me whispering my fears. "It's because he doesn't really want you," it says despite his obvious arousal, and I start to believe it.

“You have to hunt so that we can find your family and Flower," he explains, the set of his jaw determined, but his eyes plead with me to see reason.  
  
It works. The mere mention of my family and Flower brings me back in control of my body while the needful thing inside me has been returned to its cage. He’s right, and the guilt starts to rise up and flood my body in a prickly, uncomfortable tingle. I’d forgotten about Flower and Prim and my parents. They have the know-how to survive a day or two, but my father’s disabled and Flower's toddler legs can't walk far. They can’t travel well or for long. And Flower’s small, prey for many predators on land and in the air. My mother and Prim will have their hands full just trying to keep them safe as well as foraging for food.  
  
I pull myself up and away from him with the full weight of how selfish I was only a few moments ago.  
  
“It’s okay,” Peeta assures me as though my guilt hangs like a sign around my neck and takes my hand in his. “You hunt today and then we’ll set out to find them first thing in the morning.”  
  
I can’t meet his eyes or the warm smile he offers. My guilt won’t allow it, but Peeta won’t accept that. His finger curls at my chin to turn my head, to force my eyes to meet his. “I would love nothing more than to stay here and...”  
  
The color in his cheeks turns a deeper red and spreads. Not even my guilt can overshadow the joy and excitement that floods me with his words, with his bashfulness even now as we sit on the floor completely naked.  
  
Lifting myself from the floor, from him, I can't help but to get a good look as he lifts himself up as well. It's hard to miss the lines and curves of his well-defined muscles spanning his wide chest and taut abdominals. My eyes follow the trail they set for me to his rigid center until my own body distracts me and I have to turn away.  
  
What remains of what we did last night still sticks to me and it's the distraction I desperately needed. It's obvious that I have something I must do before hunting. “I think I should bathe in the lake first,” I tell him as I test the skin at my belly.  
  
I didn't think it was possible but he turns even redder.

* * *

We walk side by side maintaining a respectable distance, and even so, I’m still very aware of how close he is to me. Peeta's scent is in my nose, but every so often a stronger whiff drifts in my direction and it takes everything in me not to turn and wrap my arms around him to take more of it in with deep breaths. I’m not sure what’s come over me. Weeks ago, the thought of this level of intimacy was unthinkable. And yet, here I am, desperate for a taste of him, a touch from him, a single breath of him.  
  
There’s a large snap under his foot and Peeta sighs as we continue to the lake. It’s the fourth thick, hard to miss twig he’s snapped in mid-step along with the constant crunch under his heavy tread. “As though we didn’t know why I can’t go with you while you hunt,” he chuckles, but it lacks the mirth I expect.  
  
His awkward trampling through the woods is nothing surprising, nothing new. Since we first entered the woods, it was clear that his steps are heavy and loud, constantly alerting prey to our whereabouts.  
  
“You can collect more katniss roots,” I suggest, because we can use all the food we can carry. The cooked katniss roots will travel well with the meat.  
  
He nods as we continue to the lake, but the frown he wears tells me it doesn't make him feel any less out of place in the woods.  
  
His unease here is not completely foreign to me, but I struggle to remember those years before I had to hunt for my family regularly, before the woods became my second home.  
  
It's hard to remember what it was like being afraid of every little thing that might possibly lurk behind a tree or bush. It's hard not to always be aware of everything around me as second nature. There's a bird taking flight silently above us. A hawk. A squirrel scurrying up a thick tree trunk to my far right and begins to bark at us irately. Obviously we disturbed its activities.  
  
It's hard to imagine a time before the hunter in me awoke.  
  
Except now, the hunter in me is more preoccupied absorbing details about Peeta than anything else. His gait is off thanks to the wound on his thigh, and the muscles along his legs work even harder on the uneven ground. His bare chest expands and contracts with more effort as the path we take angles upward.  
  
We’re clothed, but I picture him as naked as he was last night and this morning. The image is so clear in my mind that I don’t see the jagged rock sticking out of the dirt and stumble several paces. It’s humiliating, not only because I’m usually sure-footed in the woods, something as constant as the sun rising in the east and setting in the west, but because of the reason why.  
  
He distracts me. Just the thought of him keeps me off-kilter. I’m thankful that he can’t walk through the woods silently because I wouldn’t be able to hunt with him around, and how would I explain that without further humiliation?  
  
“Are you okay?” he asks. The heat of embarrassment in my chest shoots up to my cheeks and the tips of my ears before I can give him a nod. It’s embarrassing, not because I tripped but why I’d tripped, and all I want to do is avoid that conversation, so I nod and continue to walk. The only thing I hurt was my pride.

* * *

We say nothing as we lay our shoes on the rocks and hang our clothes on the tree limbs before going into the water. I'd find the cool water a relief this warm morning if I weren't so busy trying not look at him.  I try not to watch the way the soap leaves a sheen of lather across his broad chest and down his belly. Or the way he bends to dunk his head into the water only to stand straight and flip his head back. His sun-gold waves have turned a bronze color from the water and the ends smack at the back of his neck sending droplets down his back.  
  
There's a reddish tint to his cheeks when he catches me staring and hands me the soap. "Sorry to hog it."  
  
I manage a smile and turn away to hopefully hide the flush in my own face and immediately begin to wash in the lake.  
  
With one hand, I smooth the soap along my abdomen and use the other to trail small circles. It doesn't take long for me to imagine them to be his hands gliding along my belly, his light and gentle fingers skimming my slickened skin. They coast downward and my stomach flutters. I shut my eyes tightly, giving in completely to the direction my thoughts have taken me.  
  
I want him to touch me while I lick the droplets of water off his smooth skin. My head tilts back at the thought and the flutter in my stomach has turned into a full blown ache between my legs.  
  
There's the unmistakable feeling of being watched, and so I turn to find Peeta staring. His hands dangle uselessly at his sides and his lips are parted. From the way his chest rapidly expands and contracts, he might be panting.  
  
He turns away quickly but not quick enough to hide the look in his eyes, the lick of his lips, the hunger that matches my own.  
  
Scrambling to shore, my typically graceful steps are anything but, splashing water everywhere in my wake. The bar of soap is long forgotten somewhere on the rocks lining the edge of the lake, dropped along the way in my desperation to get my clothes, my bow and arrows to hunt something, anything.

* * *

When the lake is well out of sight, I stop long enough to dress myself. It's not easy with my skin still wet, but I'm determined.  
  
The edge of the lake where we'd found Cheese in the katniss flowers is my destination. If that's where my family had left the sign that they'd escaped, there might be other clues to tell me where they'd gone.  
  
A squirrel skitters across my path but it only takes a second for the shock to wear off and two more to have my bow ready and an arrow aimed. It's about to dive into the brush when the tip of my arrow pierces it's scull.  
  
It's my first kill of the day and dangles from the cord of rope I use as my belt as I continue on. Another squirrel and a rabbit later, where the trees start to thin out near the lake, my feet start to sink a little into the soil. This is the muddy soil that the katniss flowers thrive in.  
  
There are no footprints. None. Not even those left by me and Peeta last night. The mud clearly settles and evens itself out in less than a day, and my heart sinks at the thought. How am I going to find my family when every trace of them is smoothed away?  
  
The honk of a goose draws my attention away. I need something to think about other than the panic mounting in my chest, the fear that I may not find my parents, my little sister, or my daughter.  
  
The geese are gathered beyond the tall, thick stretch of grass that lines the katniss flowers' home. No matter how quiet I am, they're spooked by my presence before they can even see me. And when they do see me some take flight right then and there, some waddle around angrily with their wings lifted, and every single one of them is honking. It's chaos, but it's the kind of chaos a hunter lives for. Easy pickings.  
  
The first time I'd ever come across a flock of geese like this, I came home weighed down with seven stuffed inside my game bag and dangling from my hips. Imagine my surprise when my father didn't look too happy about it. That was my first lesson in being a responsible hunter.  
  
"Katniss, the geese that didn't take flight stayed because they have babies to protect," he told me. "Those babies won't grow up to replace those you've hunted. Their numbers will dwindle until you have nothing more to hunt. Be a responsible hunter, Katniss. When you find your prey, consider their needs as well as your own."  
  
I turn away from the irate geese on the ground, suddenly feeling some empathy for them—I now know what it's like to have a baby to protect—and aim my arrow upward at one of the stragglers flying away.  
  
It plunks down from the tips of the treeline and into the deeper woods. I've never been this far out in the woods: north of the lake and far denser foliage than I'm used to. Still, I have to find my kill before some opportunistic predator finds it first.  
  
The carcass is draped over a bush, it's head lolling on the side. I rush to get it before any predators in the area decide to fight me for it, but stop short at the uneven ground beneath my feet. The soil is a mess, kicked up and trampled on as though a herd had come through. Except, the individual prints that I can identify aren't from any animal in the woods. There's no doubt about the tread in the human-shaped footprints.  
  
I almost forget to grab the goose, following the prints north-east. Impatient as I am, I secure the goose along the cord holding up my pants and follow the trail these people have made, hoping that my family's among them.  
  
It's when I take a moment to look around and have trouble remembering my path back to the lake that I decide to stop. The sun already hangs in the west alerting me that I only have about an hour of daylight left. I can't get lost, especially in the dark when I have to get back to Peeta.  
  
By the time I make it back to the small house, the sky is rapidly losing its blaze of orange and reds with a few clouds of muted blue. The fire inside the house is a beacon, comforting the closer I get to it.  
  
Inside, Peeta stokes the flames with a stick, but the katniss roots lining the edge of the fire and the spears propped up against the wall tells me he's had a productive day as well.  
  
He's staring into the fire as though it'll show him the meaning of life if he stares hard and long enough.  
  
"Peeta," I say his name while I unfasten the rope around my waist, partly to announce my presence because I feel as though I may be intruding on his private thoughts.  
  
He jumps at the sound of my voice. The smile that appears on his face starts out small before it spreads from ear to ear at the sight of me.  
  
"Was starting to get worried with the sun nearly setting."  
  
"I found something," I tell him, reaching for the one knife we have sitting on the windowsill. "I found signs of people. Maybe—"  
  
"Maybe Flower and your family are with them," he eagerly latches on to the thought. I look up and nod vigorously because he voices my excitement I'm barely able to hold back. I'm trying to remain calm. I'm trying to keep a level head about it, but before I know it, he's in front of me and I'm in his arms, enveloped in his warmth.  
  
My hand holding the knife doesn't move, but my free hand holds him tight to me. Is it wrong that I don't want to let him go?

* * *

We decide to eat one of the squirrels, leaving the other along with the rabbit and goose for travel. The spears Peeta made with nearby saplings using only the knife make for perfect spits to roast the meat.  
  
It's a decent meal for us, a half of a squirrel and two katniss roots each.    
  
Filling our bellies makes conversation come easy. “...and so I mistook the salt for sugar. The face my father made when he bit into one of those cookies was something to remember."  
  
I laugh before splitting my second root open. I'm not very familiar with the taste of cookies, they were always treats reserved for special occasions, but it's not hard to imagine overwhelming salty replacing the sweet taste of them. My stomach churns at the thought, and I feel sorry for Mr. Mellark. Then I remember that he's more than likely back in our district, one of the many charred remains. I don't find the story as funny as I did before.  
  
"What did your mother think of the cookies?" I ask a little more seriously. The woman may have been nothing but mean to me and little better with Flower, but no one deserves a death like that. No one deserves to have their life snuffed out like that. There should be memories of her at the very least.  
  
Peeta scrunches his face, and I think of Flower and smile at him. The connection between father and daughter uncanny.  
  
Extending his arm, he shows me a scar that runs along the side of his forearm, long since healed, very much faded and distinctly lighter than the rest of his skin. "She pulled me from my chair and my arm caught on edge of the metal cupboard."  
  
I drop my hands to my lap, no longer interested in the rest of my food. "I'm sorry," I tell I him, but it doesn't feel like it's enough...or maybe too much. I don't know what to say, really. I'd hoped that it would be a happy memory of his mother, but apparently not which makes me wonder if he has any.  
  
He shrugs, stuffing his mouth with the last of his roots. "My mother's not..." He pauses then corrects himself, "wasn't a fan of waste."  
  
When things get awkwardly quiet, he asks, "Katniss?" I look up. "Tell me a story about Flower."  
  
I think of the perfect one to change the mood. It's a funny memory that makes me laugh just thinking about.  
  
It was early spring when Prim and my mother decided to try and sprout some of the seeds I collected from the woods. They had big plans for starting a garden with some of the herbs they use often. They carefully planted the seeds in jars full of dirt. By April, there were healthy seedlings growing well above the rim of the glasses.  
  
Prim was so excited and couldn't wait to plant them in the new garden, except, while Prim helped our mother with dinner, Flower crawled her way over to where the jars were collected in the corner.  
  
 "Prim and my mother had been nurturing those seedlings all spring," My story's interrupted by my laughter I can't hold back any longer, remembering the side grin on Prim's face because Flower could do no wrong in her eyes. "Our mother didn't take it as well."  
  
My mother's lips were pursed tightly and brows furrowed deep, “and there Flower was, plucking them until there were only two seedlings left. She looked so pleased with herself."  
  
I'm holding my stomach I laugh so hard at the memory, but Peeta simply chuckles and leans his back against the wall, staring wistfully at the fire.  
  
"Wish I could've seen that," he mutters absentmindedly.  
  
Of course he does. He's missed a year of Flower's life. All of those little moments that I can laugh at, he'll never have. All of those significant milestones he’s missed forever.  
  
"I'm so sorry I didn't tell you about her."  
  
There's something that flickers across his face, before it smooths out into his normal, neutral expression.  
  
"I was angry with you, I'll admit. Those days from when I learned about Flower until I took the mining job, I was so close to hating you."  
  
"I wouldn't blame you if you did." I look down at my fingers twiddling on my lap.  
  
"But I didn't, I don't."  
  
My head snaps up at that. His eyes are glistening in the firelight which he blinks rapidly before turning away. "I was so angry, Katniss."  
  
I understand completely that he was angry and had, has every right to be.  
  
"You know, I used to dream of all those chores parents dread: changing diapers, late night feedings, dealing with tantrums, all of it, because it would be our child. Yours and mine."  
  
He looks away as though lost in the thought. “But you didn't want that life. When it happened, you weren't prepared for it. You didn't wonder what it would be like with children underfoot. It took some time, but I eventually understood your side of it."  
  
I don't know what to say. What do you say when someone understands you enough to forgive the unforgivable?  
  
"I do see your side of it, Katniss, but it doesn't change the fact that I wish I hadn't missed so much."  
  
"She loves you, you know." I blurt out. "In such a short time, she really does love you. You're so good with her." Afraid to look at him, I pick at a stray thread in my shirt and mutter, "Better than I ever could be. "  
  
"Katniss, in a way I've spent most of my life preparing to be a father to our daughter. Dreaming about her, hoping for her. You're just getting used to the idea of it now." He reaches for my hand, pulling it away from my shirt. "It'll get better...in time. I promise."  
  
I don't know why, maybe it's the strength of his hand on mine or the certainty in his voice, but I believe him and the corners of my mouth tip upward with his infectious optimism.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so I did have this long piece about what happened, but after thinking about it, no matter my intentions, it felt like one long screed drudging up what I'm trying to let go of. I think it's best deleted so that I can move on and stay in my happy place. Short story, nothing happened to me directly, but what I witnessed happen to others did not leave me with warm fuzzies about the fandom. So making a effort to stay in my secluded bubble with the people who have been nothing but pleasant and supportive...you guys.


	22. Responsible Hunter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've only done one round of edits because I wanted to get this out. If you find any glaring errors, please let me know. Also, this chapter's filled with sexytimes. Enjoy it before the well runs dry (only hint I'm giving). Please let me know if they are any good. I always worry about writing sex scene more than writing chapters (and I worry about writing chapters A LOT).

We gather the squirrel bones and the root scraps and toss them into the fire and then gather the remaining half of the squirrel and place it on the other side of the roots, away from the fire.  
  
There's nothing more to do other than go to sleep, but my body is strung too tightly to sleep anytime soon. The way Peeta begins to scrape the length of one of the spears with the back of the knife, removing as many splinters as he can with the limited tool, tells me sleep is the last thing on his mind as well.  
  
It's hard to think of anything but tomorrow morning, buzzing with the hope that we'll find my family, that we'll find Flower who could very will be the last bit of family he has left.  
  
"Can you hand me another one?" he asks while holding out the spear he's finished with. I wrap my hand around it but realize how close it is to his, so close that my little finger grazes his thumb.  
  
We're frozen in place, and there's a charge running from his finger to mine. My focus shifts from the slight connection we share up to the pair of deep blues that have turned darker, easily reflecting the fire.  
  
His thumb stretches out to caress my finger, and the charge rips throughout my body in a shudder. It’s such a little thing, the barest caress, and yet my body responds wholly. I'm forced to let out a tiny gasp for air.  
  
He leans closer. The movement is so painfully slow that I think perhaps its my imagination, but I don't want it to be. I want him to come closer, to smell his scent that I've become addicted to. I want to taste him on my lips and against my tongue.  
  
He hasn't even crossed a quarter of the distance between us before I press my body forward and fuse my lips to his. The force knocks him back slightly before he straightens, holding his own against my powerful need for him.  
  
This is my undoing. The scent of sweet wood smoke around us and something that is uniquely Peeta fills my nose.  
  
The more I explore his mouth the hungrier I am, and no matter how much I taste, it isn't enough. It'll never be enough, and so I claim it all: the corner of his mouth, the curve of his strong jaw, below his ear. I attack the scape of his neck with my mouth and grab at his shoulders to hold him as close to me as I can.  
  
"Katniss...” he breathes. The deep, desperate sound of it on his lips makes the needful thing inside me rejoice. I've tried to cage it, control it, but with its prey well in its sights, it's impossible to contain.  
.  
I answer my name with firm nibbles along the cord of muscle at the side of his neck. His hand lands at my waist while the other seeks the back of my head, both working together to hold me firmly to him.  
  
We’re kneeling, facing each other, pulling our bodies as close together as we possibly can. I focus on his mouth again because I need the warm slide of his tongue against mine, the vibration of his moan on my tongue and lips.  
  
Both of his hands are at my waist when his lips roam down to my jaw. It feels so good, my back arches and my head tilts back on its own. It's the first full breath I've taken and it rushes into my lungs all at once.  
  
He presses kisses to the area now exposed, pulling me with him as he sits back on folded legs. My legs wrap around him easily, his left hand guiding my right leg to safely avoid his wound and uses the opportunity to take a firm hold of the back of my thigh.  
  
My center is pressed to his, letting me know by the firmness between us and the way his hips thrust up to mine that he wants me just as much as I want him. My fingers rake through his hair, scraping at his scalp to take a handful and pull.  
  
It's a wild flurry of movement: lips to lips, hands underneath my shirt and exploring the curves of my ribs, the slight swell of my breasts.  
  
His hands push further, higher, until I have to raise my arms and my sleeveless shirt is over my head and tossed across the floor. His eyes are level with my breasts, but his focus is on my eyes. He's imploring me to meet them, to look at him.  
  
I do, expecting to find sky blue, but what I find rattles me. Even the restless predator inside me is quieted.  
  
There's a depth in his eyes that I've glimpsed several times, but this time I don’t look away, I don’t ignore it. I take it in fully. There’s insecurity, fed and nurtured by years of a mother's cutting words, of being the youngest son in the shadow of two older brothers, of being rejected by the proclaimed love of his life, of having his daughter hidden from him. And with all of this, there’s the unfailing optimism that things can get better even in the face of the worst life has to offer. It's a vulnerability that tells me I have the power to shatter him.  
  
Only now do I realize the significance of what all of this means to him. Last night could have been a one time thing. It was mutual and pleasurable and much needed comfort after all we've been through the last couple of days. He’s giving me a way out of this because if I don’t take it, if we continue, it would mean something more. To do it again would mean opening the door that can’t be closed again. It means committing to a future where he and I and Flower are a family.  
  
This new, impatient predator in me paces irritably in the corner of my mind for it's fair-haired prey while I struggle with this responsibility. He already knows which path he wants to take, a decision he’d made years ago from what people keep telling me. Now he waits for me to decide, to make sure before someone's heart is broken, more than likely his.  
  
Do I want more? It's easy to say yes here where we're alone, but what about when we find my family and the people with them. Would I still be committed when we have eyes on us again, when their expectations are forced on us again? Seam women are to marry Seam men like Gale Hawthorne. Men from town are expected to forget their Seam children and marry women like Mattie. Does that even matter now that our district’s been destroyed, or will we be judged by the survivors all the same?  
  
Peeta sits still; patiently waiting while I struggle with what I want. That's what he's always been: patient, supportive. He was the one I chose when I was sixteen. He was the one I trusted enough to do such a thing. No one else, not even someone from the Seam like the Hawthorne boy.  
  
No, it was Peeta. As I look into his eyes, I realize it was always going to be Peeta.  
  
I take his right hand and bring it to my bare chest, over my heart. "You're here," I say, holding my breath and hoping he'll understand what I'm trying to say. I can't say the words, at least not now, but this is the best way I can describe what I'm feeling. It's what I'm willing to commit to right here and now.  
  
It stays there for a couple of seconds, and there’s no doubt he can feel my heart thumping hard against his hand. It slides up my chest and throat until it cups my jaw, drawing my face to his, slowly. My answer seems to be good enough for him.  
  
Our lips meet, and it's a jolt, an intense electric shock throughout my body. The kiss isn't as greedy as it's been, more a savoring of taste and touch and even sound.  
  
Now, his hand slides back to the base of my head while the other grips my rear. I'm held by him as he leans me back to the floor.  
  
There's nothing more glorious than to see him hover above me or the feel of his lips pressed against mine.  
  
They work their way over my chin and down my throat in feather-light caresses. It's hard to breathe, especially when he reaches my left breast and his hand covers the other.  
  
There's a string of jolts shooting straight to my center when his tongue flicks at the peak of one and whirls around it. I convulse beneath him, the shocks are too much and not enough. My fingers dig into his shoulders, and I pant his name.  
  
His kisses are hungry even as the leave my breasts and follow a path down my ribs to my belly. The further down my body he goes, the hungrier the kisses against my skin seem to get.  
  
My stomach tightens and my center pulses.  
  
And then there's the pull at the waistband of my pants. His fingers have curled around them and my underwear, pulling whether I lift my hips to help or not. It’s a little embarrassing being exposed to him so slowly. My eyes are closed, but I don’t have to open them to know he’s studying every inch of me as he takes the last of my clothing.  
  
There’s the rustle of what must be my clothes on the floor some distance away. Peeta rests his forehead at my belly and breathes deeply, but his hand continues, fingers traveling downward and feathering my inner thigh. I shudder at the touch because the sensations flood in more than I can handle.  
  
His fingers find their way to my center, slipping inside me easily which makes him groan my name and sends a rush of heat to my center.  
  
And then in that instant his mouth is on me, latched between my legs with his tongue lapping and swirling and it's no longer just my legs shaking but my entire body vibrating. It takes me by surprise how close I am to that feeling from last night, how every muscle in my body tightens. I need something to hold on to, something to ground me because I’ve lost all control of myself, and my hands fly to Peeta’s hair. I’m taking fistfuls, and I’m not sure if I’m grabbing too tightly, but Peeta doesn’t seem to mind. In fact, it encourages him. His arms wrap around my thighs and pulls me closer to him; his tongue and fingers work in unison more fervently until all at once there’s a release. My legs are clamped around his head and my fingers frozen in his hair until the waves subside and I’m left limp on the floor.  
  
He gives one last lick, and it’s too much, actually almost painfully so. I'm nothing more than oversensitive nerves and instinct, recoiling from his touch. He moves up my body, planting kisses as he goes. His mouth stops at my breast, suctioning at its peak that is far more sensitive than before. It's not too much, but instead I feel the now familiar beginnings of a pulse between my legs.  
  
It only grows when his mouth suctions at the other breast, his tongue swirling around the nipple. I cry out, hold onto him, pulling him up so that he can face me, look into my eyes and see that I need him.  
  
“Peeta..." I start but what can I say. Any other time, I'm no good with words and it’s made worse by the insistent throb between my legs, the lingering tingle at my breasts and the scent of his skin and me on his lips. As though he knows I can't form the words, he doesn't even wait for me to continue. He sits up to pull his shirt over his head and drops it next to us then pulls his pants down his legs. He’s rushing, careless by the hiss his makes when he pushes them over his left leg, over the the makeshift bandage covering his wound, but it only slows him down by a couple of seconds.  
  
He’s staring down at me as naked as I am, his need for me jutting out before he leans forward. His left hand is at the back of my thigh, hitching it up high at his waist while his other arm supports his body over me.  
  
The hand at my thigh slides between us, placing himself right where he needs to be. I hear his breath at my ear and what sounds like "I love you, Katniss," before he pushes forward. I’m lost in the feel of him and widen my legs to accept all of him. My leg around his waist curls around his back.  
  
His hips thrust forward then withdraw, and I begin to move my hips to meet his. It takes some work for us to find a rhythm together, but we do, and it’s bringing us close to that feeling by the tightening in my belly and his soft moans in my ear.  
  
His love has been in everything he says and does with me. It's been breaking through my defenses slowly but steadily, and now I hear the words. I really hear them. I accept them. “I love you.”  
  
I hold him tight to my body as it shudders underneath him. My eyes are closed as I’m lost on the waves of release, but I hear my name cried out. He’s groaning, heaving breaths and then Peeta's warmth is ripped from my arms. He’s no longer inside me, no longer over me and I whine for him to return because I can’t think of the words to tell him as much. Suddenly warmth hits my thigh.

Peeta flops to the floor beside me, breathing in rasps and looking up at the ceiling like me. Once his breathing evens out, he sits up and looks around. He stretches to his side near the wall with the window and pulls back the other sleeve from my shirt to immediately wipe my leg before flopping back down on the floor. “I’ll wash it when we get to the lake tomorrow,” he says between breaths.  
  
I curl into his side. Not that I'm cold—far from it with how warm our bodies are and how warm the air is—but that I need his touch. Even now, sated and sleepy, I crave it.  
  
He slips my hand into his, palms pressed and fingers twined together. He lifts the back of my hand to his lips before he exhales, "Real." It almost sounds as though he's released all of his fears in the one breath. Our hands rest on his chest as it rises and falls, the movement slowing until there's a soft snore from him.  
  
His long, blond lashes have taken on the color of a sunset in the dying firelight, and his lips are parted slightly. I can't help but think how beautiful he is, how glad I am that Flower looks so much like him before sleep takes me too.

* * *

I feel warm and giddy when I open my eyes. Sunlight streams through the window, birds sing sweetly and the scent of Peeta surrounds me.  
  
My head rests on his chest, and I quickly lift and turn to face him. He's awake and I can't help but to twist and crawl up to meet him face to face so that I can dip down and press my lips to his.  
  
"Let's go find them!" It's hard to contain my excitement. My body’s vibrating at the thought of finding my family.  
  
There's a thought that lives at the edge of my mind, something that makes my chest warm and my toes tingle. It's a barely formed thought, more like an image in my mind of my family safe around me while Peeta and I hold our daughter in our arms.  
  
Peeta lifts himself up by his elbows and smiles bright and broad. "Let's go find them," he agrees. We gather and slip on our clothes, but Peeta drapes my shirt sleeve over his arm. Our eyes meet and there’s a reddish tint to his skin that mirrors the rush of extra warmth through my body.  
  
“Shouldn’t we eat before we go?” he asks quickly, distracting us from what really on our minds.  
  
He's right, though. I rarely eat breakfast, so it’s the last thing on my mind, but in this case, he is right. We’re about to venture further into the woods, and we’ll need all the energy we can muster.  
  
Now, though, we're bursting with energy, barely able to sit in one spot long enough to we eat a couple of katniss roots. Those tracks will lead us to the survivors from our district, and my family’s sure to be among them. The sooner we start following those tracks, the sooner we’ll find them.  
  
Peeta volunteers his shirt to hold the rest of our food, and I inwardly admit to myself that I'm far from disappointed at the prospect of looking at his strong, wide chest for the trip. I'm pulled out of the thought by the sound of one of Peeta's spears snapping in half. He's taking the half with two blunt edges and adding a deep notch at one end. It’s a perfect catch for the tied bundle of meat and roots to hang from, and the stick is easier to sling over his shoulder. He then chooses another spear to take with him in his other hand.  
  
I take the our knife and slide it between the rope I use for a belt and my pants before slipping my bow over my shoulder and my quiver of arrows over the other.  
  
What we have isn’t much, but I think it’ll be enough to survive in the woods for days, weeks if we have to, even with my family. There's plenty of food to travel with and hopefully enough to feed them as well, but if not, I can always hunt for more. If we ration everything out properly, I won’t be too weak to feed six mouths.  
  
My only worry is how many people are with them? How can we feed my family and not feed those they've escaped with? By the looks of the footprints, there are enough people to overcome us for our food if their empty bellies have any say.  
  
By the time we leave the small house, I decide it would be best if we hide the food when we find them. Delay in showing ourselves until our cache of food is safely tucked away to make sure that it can't be taken from us by those from our district who are now homeless and hungry and desperate.  
  
We stop at the lake so that Peeta can wash my shirt sleeve carried in the crook of his arm, wrings it out and ties it to the bottom end of his carrying stick. There’s no time to wash ourselves. Every moment of sunlight is time we could use to follow the trail.  
  
Following the lake, past the katniss roots and tall grass that house the geese, the kicked-up, stomped in soil is exactly where I remember it to be. Peeta's eyes widen at the sight of so many feet having tread one path. Not even our district's main road had ever been so busy.  
  
"How many others do you think survived?" he asks, but what worries me is the sound of hope in his voice. Perhaps he thinks his family could be among the survivors with my family. They may, but I fear this may be hoping for too much. My family was already on their way to the fence when I left them to find Peeta, but his family was still in town. The eldest Hawthorne boy did go back to town instead of straight to the Seam where his family would be. There is a chance, as slim as it is. And yet, Gale Hawthorne never struck me as being friendly with people from town.  
  
Again, I don't tell Peeta about Gale Hawthorne going back to town. It would be a happy surprise to find his family among the survivor's, but I don't know what it would do to him to give that extra measure of hope only to have it taken from him.  
  
"What's got you so lost in your thoughts?" he asks me as we continue deeper into the woods. The trees are densely packed together, but I navigate them easily, even as distracted as I am. The footprints aren't as easy to follow as the ground becomes more tree roots than soil, but the trampled shrubs and other disrupted foliage leaves a path still easy for us to follow. With as many people as there must be, it’s hard for them not to leave a trail.  
  
"I've never been this far into the woods," I tell him. It's the truth, but he thinks this was what was on my mind. I let him think it.  
  
"Neither have I, "he smirks and then laughs. I laugh with him.  
  
The sun dips low in the west and it's getting hard to see where we're going. Neither one of us wants to call it a day, always hopeful that the next few steps we’ll find them, but the sun and our aching feet decide it's time to call it for the night.  
  
We try to climb the sturdiest tree we find, but the higher branches creak and crack under Peeta's solid weight. It doesn't help that he has even less graceful climbing than walking in the woods.  
  
"Why don't you go up there and I'll stay down here."  
  
His suggestion is unthinkable. As if I would leave him on the ground alone. He's no hunter, and his only experience in the woods has been a few days, most of it in a shelter as decrepit as it is.  
  
I take the carrying stick from him and untie the shirt full of food. “Take these,” I tell him as I shove the last half of the squirrel we ate last night and two greasy katniss roots into his hands before tying the rest back into the shirt.  
  
"I'll hide the food high in the tree so that predators won’t get it." I'm already up the first limb before he has a chance to protest. It doesn't matter what he may have to say; I've made up my mind.  
  
We don't need a fire. The air is warm and our food is cooked. It could keep away predators, but then again, it could attract them too.  
  
Only stopping long enough to have one root each for lunch and a full day of walking has worked up an appetite, the kind where we say nothing while we all but swallow our portions almost whole. Peeta gnaws on the leg bone and then licks the squirrel fat from his fingers. I’m no better. Our portion for the night doesn’t fill us up at all, but we have to be careful rationing our food.  
  
We make our bed under a bush where the dirt is a little softer, but not far from the tree with our food hidden in it. We’re not too close to it, though. If a predator got a whiff of a possible meal, it's best we're not near it sleeping.  
  
Peeta's hand rests on my hip, my back against his chest. I'm tired, but the feel of him so close has been building that indescribable need inside. I can't help but to imagine his hand elsewhere.  
  
The last couple of days have been as frightening as they have been freeing. To know exactly what I want and who I want it from is liberating.  
  
I take his hand from my hip and place it under my shirt and on my breast, and there's a rush of air sucked into his lungs. My newfound boldness seems boundless as I turn to face him, using my hand to unbutton his pants. His own hand stops kneading my breast when I take him in my hand. I've never actually felt it like this and explore the fullness, the weight, the smooth skin.  
  
His hands are frozen on my breast, and he's struggling to breath. Even his exhales are raspy and raw. "Katniss," he breaths, his body curls inward. "I'm so close."  
  
"Not yet," I whisper. I've became brazen. He's released something I'm not sure can be controlled. A few seconds later, my pants are to the side of us and I'm half naked and straddling his hips. I have some trouble positioning him, and with desperate hands, he helps me. And then I'm sliding down slowly, feeling him enter me.  
  
His chest stops moving; he's holding his breath until I'm down as far as I can go. He's fully inside and that's when he breathes again. “You're so—you feel so—" He can't seem to finish a thought except when he groans my name. He's panting and tries to warn me of something but can’t get that thought out either. "I can't—" is all he manages to say.  
  
I'm completely lost in the feel of him inside me, beneath me with my legs wrapped around him. My eyes have been closed, but I open them to see his expression. He's as lost in this as I am, which only pushes me close to what we're working towards.  
  
I take his hand and place it between my legs near where we're joined. He's moving his fingers furiously and it's building inside me quickly. My hips rock, my legs work so that I lift and fall in a rhythm until I feel that now familiar gathering of something in my body, tightening every muscle in my body until it's reached it's limit. And then it releases. In the haze of the pulsing throughout my body, I hear Peeta cry out. He frantically pushes my hips up and off of him all the while curling his body inward and away from me, but his fingers are at my hips, clenching and unclenching in time with his shudders.  
  
I hold myself over him on my hands and knees and through my own pleasure I watch his.    
  
He swallows hard, I can hear it. "I tried to wait as long as I could for you. Almost didn't make it out in time…" he tells me with a shy glance in the direction of his stomach. What was once firm now lays flaccid at his belly, his navel pooled with all he's spilled.

* * *

Light is starting to spread through the woods before the sun can even rise fully. It's enough light to follow the trail which means it's enough to start moving again.  
  
The moment I lift my hand to touch his arm, to gently wake him, a low rumble grows in the woods. It start on the ground and expands until I can't hear anything else. I feel it in my chest. It occurs to me that I hadn't woken to the sound of birds like I have since we came into the woods. There wasn't any sound at all until the rumbling.  
  
And then it appears in the sky, high above the treetops. It's an airship, drifting across and blocking the small patch of blue sky. Peeta's arm tightens around me. Of course he's awake. How could anyone sleep through that sound?  
  
As soon as it's out of sight and the sound is as faint as a cat purring, the birds begin their songs. It's a flood of sound as though they'd been holding it all in, holding their breaths and waiting for the ship to leave like us. It's our cue to get up, and we sprint to the tree with our food. If the Capitol is looking for survivors, how well can a mob of people hide, even in the woods? How well can my family hide with my father and Flower who can’t run?  
  
The question, now, is whether or not we can we find them before the Capitol.  
  
We don't smile or laugh as much as we push deeper into the unfamiliar woods. It's as though the airship has blanketed the entire woods with doubt and fear. We don't talk about it, but I can see in his eyes that his optimism of when we left the small house is as dampened as my own.  
  
When we stop for the night, when we eat a portion of our packed food, we say nothing. I don't want to speak because all of my mounting fears may tumble out.  
  
He eyes the darkening sky before we tuck ourselves into a thicket, his body pressed behind me and his arm wrapped around me tightly, protectively. We're no longer only worried about the four-legged predators but the two-legged kind as well.  
  
"We'll find them; 'he says reassuringly, but who she trying to reassure?

* * *

The first thing I listen for when I wake up is the sound of birds. They're there: deep warbles and high-pitched chirps, and that calms me as I wake up fully. Not seeing the airship is even more comfort, an irrational notion that if I can't see them they can’t see us or my family.  
  
We start the day with some food before we set out again.The damaged foliage is still easier to spot, but the soil's starting to give more to hold footprints, and there are so many of them.  
  
The first loud crunch and snap of a twig, I blame Peeta's heavy tread, but the second freezes me in my spot. Peeta follows my lead, stopping and listening. Another snap and our heads whip around to where it came from.  
  
And then we hear, "See anything?"  
  
I grab Peeta by the arm and pull to the densest cluster of saplings. Thin trunks aren't much, but their dark leaves are broad and abundant, enough to hide us from the three peacekeepers emerging from the southwest.  
  
"Why can't they burn the lot of it like they did the district?" one says as he swats foliage out of his way with his rifle.  
  
Another slaps at the back of his neck and inspects his palm. "Would be better than having us slog through this bug-infested wasteland."  
  
The third says nothing, but his gun points in every direction his eyes dart, which is everywhere. "I don't mind the land, not even the bugs. It's the beasts I wish they'd do away with."  
  
"Aw, the big kitty scare you?" The first peacekeeper claps his hand on the third's shoulder, which is promptly shrugged off, while the second watches and sniggers.  
  
"Doesn't matter. That creature's as dead as the district, now." The third peacekeeper continues on with the other two following behind him with mischievous grins.  
  
Peeta's grip on one of his spears tightens and every muscle in his body tenses. He's eying all three peacekeepers, sizing up each one. The calculation he's making is as clear as day. If we let them go, they may find the people who left the trail before us. And he's desperate to keep that from happening.  
  
So am I, but I also fear that attacking them now would make things worse. The fear is enough for me to cover Peeta's spear hand with mine. He looks at me, his brows scrunched and I see Flower for a moment in his questioning eyes. There's a pang in my chest as I realize how much I miss my daughter.  
  
Peeta watches me for some sign of what we should do. I shake my head and continue to watch the peacekeepers. I'm not sure where this fear comes from or how to explain to Peeta what I'm feeling, but to save me from having to do it, there's a crackling coming from the three men passing us as they follow the trail.  
  
The peacekeeper presses a button on the strap wrapped around his wrist. A piercing beep rings out, and then there's a voice garbled in static. "Northeast. Check-in.”  
  
“Northeast checking in. Roads here. Still following the tracks, but haven't caught up with the lot that left it."  
  
"We found a few stragglers in the northwest. Remember, shoot on sight. No survivors."  
  
"Copy that," The first Peacekeeper, Roads, ends the conversation by releasing the cuff on his wrist; but the third guy looks more troubled by the conversation than the other two.  
  
"Shoot on sight? They're just people from a backwards district. Why kill them all?"  
  
"Their tribute aided the rebellion in the Games. A traitor, and the people he came from are probably traitors too," the second peacekeeper explains. Roads nods in full agreement, but the third still seems unconvinced.  
  
The two look at each other and shake their heads at the third. "Curbsen, are you a sympathizer?" Roads finally asks.  
  
The third peacekeeper sputters and turns red-faced. "Of course not! I only meant...what I wanted to say...the people—"  
  
Roads claps his hand on Curbsen's shoulder while laughing. The second peacekeeper joins in.  
  
"We know you're not a sympathizer. It's okay." Curbsen visibly relaxes with the two before the three of them continue to follow the tracks.  
  
"We have to stop them from finding Flower and your family," Peeta whispers.  
  
"Not now. If something happens to them, the rest will come quickly. We'll deal with them when we find the people who left those tracks. It’ll give us time to hide them."  
  
We avoid the most important topic: how are we going to stop them from killing our district's survivors? Two against three, there's only one way and neither one of us wants to say it out loud.

* * *

 

The three peacekeepers are able to keep going even after we would’ve had to stop. It’s almost completely dark except for their flashlights that guide them a little farther. It’s easy to follow them when they’re the only lights around.

We keep our distance, too far to hear what they’re saying to each other, but it’s also too far for them to hear Peeta’s loud footsteps.  
  
When they finally stop for the night, so do we. There’s a hollowed out tree trunk with its shell covered in moss and vines. It's the perfect size for the two of us to sleep if we keep very close together. And it’s protection enough from predators.  
  
We tuck ourselves into the fallen log. I hold the bundle of food close to my ribs. Peeta's body's curled around me, his broad chest pressed tightly to my back with his arm wrapped around my chest. His hand slips into my palm, fingers intertwining. “We’ll find them first,” he whispers and kisses the back of my head.  
  
What he doesn’t say is that we have to. There is no other option.

* * *

We’re up before the peacekeepers. They’re not as motivated to follow the trail as we are which makes both of us restless waiting for them to rouse and ready themselves for the next hike. If not for them, we could have been following the trail before the sun rose fully, but the peacekeepers don’t break their camp until well after it’s at the tips of the trees in the east.  
  
Our entire search is at the mercy of these men: how fast, how slow. They seem to prefer a slow pace, which makes me want to climb the pine tree nearest them and pelt them with it’s cones.  
  
The worst of it is that Peeta and I are getting thirsty. We have to stay with them; we have to be ready at a moment’s notice because in the moment we least expect, the peacekeepers may find my family and the rest of the survivors. We have to be there, ready to do whatever we have to do to protect them.  
  
We hear it before we see it. The peacekeepers step out of the woods to were everything opens up for a stream so large it must be a river. I’ve seen one on the screen during one of the Hunger Games. It’s almost  as wide as the lake we came from, but the length of it runs as far as I can see in both directions. Peeta tugs on my shirt. “Is that what I think it is?”  
  
“A river…”  
  
He looks at it again. His eyes take in the details of the large stones lining the riverbank, the white foam forming the in the churning water. “Stay here,” I tell him, and then tip-toe closer to the peacekeepers. They’re looking in all directions as though they have no idea where to go next. Roads takes out a pair of binoculars, one of those items prized in the Hunger Games.  
  
“What do you see, Roads?” asks Curbsen.  
  
“Nothing. Not a trace. No footprints, nothing,” he grumbles before putting the binoculars away. “It’s like they disappeared into thin air.”  
  
“Fat chance of that. There’s something we’re missing,” says the peacekeeper whose name I still don’t know.  
  
I want to see for myself, so I take to the closest tree and start to climb. Sure enough, I can see the other side and it’s untouched. There are no muddy footprints, no trampled soil. Nothing.  
  
Below, Curbsen removes his helmet and scoops a handful of water from the river to him mouth. The other two wrinkle their noses at him. “What are you doing drinking that without any Safety drops?”  
  
Roads shoves the peacekeeper away from the river, but Curbsen assures them, “It’s fine. I read where—”  
  
The other two don’t listen. They shove Curbsen away from the river.  
  
Watching the peacekeeper drink has only made me thirstier. I’m also very hungry and very frustrated. One branch at a time, I climb down the tree so that I can return to Peeta, so that we can figure out what to do next when the peacekeepers backtrack. They’re heading in Peeta’s direction and I can only hope he’s stayed hidden.  
  
Just in case he hadn’t, I perch on the closest limb and balance myself against the trunk so that I can nock my bow with one of my arrows and take aim. If they find him, I can get one of them and hopefully cause enough confusion to give him a chance to run.  
  
They walk as loudly as Peeta, perhaps even more. I hold my breath as they pass where I know he had been when I left him.  
  
The three don’t notice anything out of the ordinary and continue at their typical leisurely pace in some conversation I can’t hear.  
  
I all but slide down the tree and rush to the place where I left Peeta. He’s not there. I look around and don’t see him. My first thought is to call out for him, but the peacekeepers may hear me, so I stay silent.  
  
And then I hear the crunching. It’s a familiar crunching. “Peeta?” I whisper out and turn to find him walking towards me.  
  
“Had to change my hiding spot,” he tells me. “What’s going on?”  
  
“The tracks just end. It’s like they disappeared.” His brows scrunch, and I know he’s trying to make sense out of it the way I’m still trying to do. I lead him to the riverbank and point to the other side.  
  
“I climbed the tree to see the other side, and there was nothing. No sign that they’d crossed.” I take a long look at the roiling water. “And I don’t think they would have made it across that.” What I can’t bring myself to say is that my family would never have made it across, especially with my father and Flower.  
  
“What do we do now?”  
  
There’s a loud snap and we whip around to find Curbsen standing frozen in his spot. His green eyes bulge as though we’ve surprised him as much as he’s surprised us. He must have stepped on the twig at the same moment he saw us.  
  
It’s a single moment when we’re all too stunned to do anything but stare at each other and the helmet he’d left on the rocky riverbank. My mind has gone blank right up until Curbsen raises his arm and pushes a button on his wrist. The next second, my bow is in my hands, an arrow aimed at the peacekeeper at the same time he raises his rifle.  
  
I curse when Peeta rushes forward because he’s put himself between me and the peacekeeper. There’s no doubt that was his purpose, making himself the target of Curbsen’s gun. The problem is that he makes himself my target as well. I can’t get to Curbsen without injuring him.  
  
As angry as I am, I have to admit that Peeta’s fast when he’s not worried about keeping quiet in the woods. By the time Curbsen’s fired his shot, Peeta’s barreling into him with all of his force. The shot misses high, and the peacekeeper falls hard to the ground onto his back with Peeta over him. They’re struggling in a tangle of limbs and I can’t get a clear shot.  
  
And then something whizzes past my ear and chips away at the tree behind me with a thunk. I look up and find the other two peacekeepers. Fear, shock, and instinct reign over me which is why my bow goes up and an arrow’s released in two seconds. One of the two peacekeepers crumbles down to his knees. I don’t know his name, but the arrow hits his chest, more than likely a direct hit to his heart.  
  
His hands rise to touch the arrow as though disbelieving it’s really lodged in his chest but then falls to his side. I recognize that look in his eyes before he goes down completely. I’ve seen it with the animals I’ve hunted. He won’t get up again.  
  
Roads sneers at me right before he tears through the distance at me. My only hesitation is when I see Peeta underneath Curbsen and our knife between them pointing straight at Peeta’s ribcage. I know it’s either him or me. I can only save one of us. And so I nock my bow with the next arrow and aim.  
  
I’m allowed one second of relief to see Curbsen slump over Peeta before Roads knocks me back into the tree behind me. His hands are at my throat, squeezing tightly and he’s practically growling. He has a look in his eyes, the more animal side people get when they’re angry or desperate. My vision has collapsed into nothing but black except for the center circle where Roads’s face is fuzzy.  
  
I think how I wish I could have seen my family again. How I wish I could have seen Flower again and be a mother to her. A real mother. I know Prim will take care of her, but will Flower remember me? There’s one thought that I cling to: my parents, Prim, and Peeta would never let her forget me. Especially Peeta, because he loves me…and I love him…  
  
There’s a squelching sound followed by a muffled thump and the fingers around my throat slacken. Roads stares at me, his expression twists into something of shock, and gravity pulls us down. I’m on my side, Roads not far from me, and my vision slowly returns but it’s all fuzzy now. Peeta’s standing above us, his shoulders hunched and hair in his face while he looks down at Roads. His exhales are fierce bursts of air, one after another, and in his hand is our knife. It’s no longer shiny steel, but red. All red.  
  
What could only be blood drips down from it in a stream to the ground, and I follow it to where Roads lays next to me. His eyes are open, staring at me, but his pupils are completely dilated. His expression is the same as when we fell to the ground.  
  
I’m struggling to breathe, but my throat is so raw that I have to force myself to take smaller, slower breaths even though my chest demands more air. My wheezing pulls Peeta from his own thoughts and he looks at me. There’s a strange expression on his face, but it melts away.  
  
Next thing I know, he’s on the ground and holding me in his arms.  
  
“I’m okay,” I try to say but it comes out as raspy squawks. I try again but I’m interrupted by another voice that cuts through the woods, brimming with excitement. “Cut!”


	23. Made Public

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is an almost 6000 word monster so I'm sure there WILL be mistakes. If any of you find something that needs my attention, please let me know.

A blond woman bursts from dense foliage with a man following her. There's no doubt in my mind that they're from the Capitol. Only from there could a woman have vines tattooed on the shaved half of her head winding all the way down past the collar of her shirt. Or where it’s not strange for a man to sport several piercings, including two below his lower lip. They glint endlessly as he speaks into the strap wrapped around his wrist, very similar to what the Peacekeepers wore.

The woman’s hands extend in our direction, the tips of her thumbs and forefingers are brought together to form a box with us in the center of her view. “You see that! That’s what we needed!”

The man pauses long enough to glance at what she's framing with her fingers then goes back to speaking into his wristband. There’s nothing speaking back and he doesn’t seem to expect it to, which makes me think that he’s recording notes on what she’s telling him rather than communicating with someone.

I pull myself as close to Peeta as I can manage, and look into his eyes. Neither of us need to speak to get across what we're thinking. His hand slips between us and pulls back our knife. The only question is whether we fight and risk being taken, or take that option from the Capitol completely and end it here.

The woman stops suddenly and her eyes are focused on the glint of metal. "Whoa, there. Friends…we’re friends," she insists. The man behind her pauses to listen to the woman, and then notices her hands raised in a nonthreatening gesture. He eventually looks in our direction and spots the knife Peeta's holding. One of his eyes brows raise higher than the other in some mild reaction. He’s curious, slightly.

"You're from the Capitol." I mean for it to sound like a seething accusation—at this point, what do I have to lose—but my throat makes it sound more like a desperate croak.

"We were," the woman says, "but we’ve gone on to bigger and better things in District Thirteen."

My jaw drops, and I feel Peeta's knife-hand slacken. The woman must see this as a sign that she can relax a little, at the very least lower her hands to her sides.

Two men emerge with what looks like heavy machinery studded with expanding and contracting lenses covering their heads and shoulders. The woman whips around, her blond hair on half her head whips with her, but the other half, the bald half covered with green vines twist and turn. “Castor! Pollux! Tell me you got all of it!” Her tone is all at once demanding and hopeful. One of the men with the machinery nods while the other calls out, “From the moment that peacekeeper snapped the twig.”

The woman’s body relaxes fully, and she exhales, “Both of you are magnificent!”

The pain in my throat has also left it dry, so I cough. That brings everyone’s attention back to me and Peeta.

"Who are you?" Peeta asks and the lenses embedded in the head gear of the two men expand and contract in our direction. I have my doubts that this Capitol woman is really from Thirteen. In fact, I'm more convinced that these could very well be our final moments and they’re recording each one. To die for the entertainment of the Capitol is nothing new. It would be fitting if we died becoming tributes in sense.

“Well, there’ll be time for introductions later. That young Peacekeeper sounded an alarm and more Capitol ships will be here very soon. We don’t have much time.”

Peeta doesn’t make the slightest move and neither do I.

“Your sister told me you were stubborn,” the woman says, folding her arms and looking directly at me.

“My sister?” I’m skeptical this woman knows anything about Prim, but the spark of hope propels me.

“Yeah, ‘P’ something…Pim—” she snaps her fingers trying to remember the name, but then the man behind her mutters, “Primrose. Prim.” And then quickly adds, “She said to tell her, ‘little duck’.”

“Prim!” Her name’s mangled in my throat. I scramble out of Peeta’s arms because I have no doubt they’re telling the truth, that they know where Prim is. I’m still a little disoriented and wobble on my feet, but Peeta’s right there to hold me steady.

“You know where Prim is?” he asks for me.

A smirk appears on the woman’s face. “Of course. She’s in District Thirteen. Now will you come so we can take you to her?”

The woman lifts a small horseshoe-shaped device around her neck up to her mouth and tells whoever it is on the other end that we’re ready for pickup. There’s a thrumming in the air, similar to the sound when the hovercraft flew over me and Peeta yesterday but not as powerful. In moments a very small hovercraft appears in the sky and lowers itself over the churning river. The mouth of the ship opens wide until the lip of it hits the bleached stones lining the river, creating a ramp for us to enter the ship.

The woman and man walk up and into the ship first while Peeta and I follow. His left arm is wrapped tightly around me while his right hand firmly grips the knife tucked in the waistband of his pants, ready for anything. It’s the same with me, my nerves are on edge and my hands are twitching they’re so ready to reach for my bow and an arrow. We don’t know these people; we don’t trust these people, but we have to see if District Thirteen really still exists, if Prim is there and alive. If so, perhaps Flower and my parents are with her.

They claim they work for the rebellion that’s now tearing through Panem and coordinated by District Thirteen, the district that was supposed to be destroyed in the last rebellion. They claim they’ve rescued my sister and others from our destroyed district. I’m itching to ask about Flower, but I’m not ready to tell them any more than I have to.

Peeta’s silence says he feels the same.

The inside of this hovercraft is nothing but a small open space with built-in benches bolted to the two sides lined with a mesh backing. One man stands in front of a panel that protrudes from the left wall and halts his typing to look up at us before resuming as though we’re not as interesting as what’s on the screen. He’s wearing a uniform that’s similar to the one the woman, note-taker, and cameramen wear, but this man has a badge around his arm with the letter “M” in the center of a box.

The note-taker shows us where to sit and belts us in before going to his own seat. And then there’s a swoop in my stomach and I know we’re in the air.

Suddenly the man with the badge that was so disinterested in us before is in front of me with a small box in one hand and reaching for one of my hands with his other. “What’s that for?” Peeta leans forward and places himself between the man and me.

“He’s the medic. He has to take some of your blood so they can test for diseases before you go into the district. They learned that lesson the hard way a few years ago,” Cressida says. “It’ll only be unpleasant for a moment.”

Peeta withdraws slightly, enough so that the medic can reach my hand but not enough to give any impression that we’re comfortable with this, with them. My pointer finger’s stuffed into the contraption and a half second later there’s a snap. I hiss and jerk my hand away. It reminds me of the contraption in the Justice Building, the day Flower officially became the daughter of Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark. I’m pulled from the memory by another snap. Peeta pulls his finger from the contraption and immediately to his mouth and stares at the floor lost in his own thoughts.

The medic studies the tiny screen on the contraption and nods to himself before setting it on the floor and doesn’t waste time kneeling and carefully evaluating Peeta’s leg wound through the tear in his pants. “Not too deep. Seems clean enough,” he mutters to himself and sticking Peeta with a syringe. Before we can reach our weapons, the medic’s pumped Peeta with whatever it was. We’re armed again, but the medic gives us an almost bored look and rolls his eyes. “To avoid infection,” he tells us while standing and going back to his panel. We relax again, slightly.

“What happened to my sister?” I ask the woman, my voice a little better than before. What I really want to ask is whether or not she was alone. Was she with my daughter? My parents? I don’t ask these questions, though, because I don’t want to volunteer any more information than what’s absolutely necessary. I can only hope that the woman will give me some hope to hold onto.

“I wouldn’t dream of stealing someone else’s story to tell,” the blonde woman says with a smirk. I can’t help but remind myself that this woman is from the Capitol and therefore considers our lives nothing more than entertainment. The same Capitol where they watch twenty-four children die every year for sport.

“My name’s Cressida, by the way,” she introduces herself and then points to the note-taker. “And that’s my assistant, Messala.”

Messala has something plugged into his ear, concentrating on whatever sound comes through it, although I’m not sure how he can hear it over the noise of the hovercraft. He turns to us long enough to give a quick nod and smile before he turns back to his task.

“And that’s Castor and Pollux,” Cressida continues, pointing to the two men that are currently freeing themselves from the head to shoulders gear.

“It’s nice to meet you,” says Castor with a bright smile as he sets his gear on the seat beside him. Pollux says nothing but nods and smiles at us, doing the same with his gear. His smile is strange, as though he’s not sure how far his lips should spread, whether or not to show teeth. I know I shouldn’t stare, and I wish I could stop my brows from furrowing but they do against my will.

“My brother’s an avox,” Castor tells us, immediately recognizing my curiosity. The two men nod as though the word should explain everything.

“Avox?” Peeta asks, beating me to the question.

“He was punished by the Capitol. His tongue was removed, and he was considered nothing more than a slave.”

“That’s awful!” I blurt out. It seems Pollux can manage a small grin far better than a full blown smile.

“Yeah, it was,” chuckles Castor, “but the rebellion is one way he can work through the issues he has with the Capitol.”

Despite myself I smile, but the thought of this man’s tongue being removed for any reason makes me want to cry. Would this have been our fate if Peeta and I were captured by the Capitol and not killed: slavery with our tongues cut? At least knowing what this man has been through at the hands of the Capitol, I’m willing to believe they really have fled to District Thirteen.

This makes my guard lower a bit, and with it, all of my energy drains from me. I’m left feeling worn and weary, and lean my head on Peeta’s shoulder, taking his hand in mine. With all of the strength I have left, I hold on to it, to him.

It doesn’t take long for the hovercraft to reach our destination. Looking out the windows along the cabin walls, there’s no sign of human life on the ground. It’s not the toxic wasteland the Capitol has led us to believe for years, but rather lush woodlands dotted with ruins as far as the eye can see. Still, there are no inhabitable structures for people to live in, no signs of human life.

The craft hovers over an old, concrete lot. Weeds have forced their way through cracks, some have even grown into sizable shrubs. The whole slab lifts open just enough for this tiny hovercraft to slide into the ground and into a hangar.

Once our hovercraft touches down onto the launchpad, an exit light glows and the mouth of the ship opens. Two men stand at the bottom of the ramp, one of them has his hands behind his back and has the straight, unyielding posture of a soldier. The other man, however, has the well-fed, unblemished look of someone from the Capitol.

"Plutarch," Cressida calls to the plump man, already out of her seat and rushing down the ramp before Peeta and I can unbuckle ourselves, "I take it you've seen the uplink."

"Oh, yes. The raw footage is more than we could've hoped for. Absolutely spectacular!"

Plutarch's eyes dance, fixed on Peeta and me as we follow Castor and Pollux down the ramp. He’s all smiles as he watches us descend from the hovercraft.

He doesn't say another word until we're standing with the film crew in front of him. The other man next to him remains silent but uses the time to appraise us fully.

"Allow me to introduce myself. My name's Plutarch Heavensbee, and welcome to District Thirteen," he says, holding his arms up and wide in a grand gesture, as though the hangar bay is more impressive than a large space filled with work crew and aircraft.

"And this is Boggs." Plutarch gestures towards the man next to him.

It's not surprising that the first words to us from Boggs aren't pleasantries but getting to the point of why he’s here. "President Coin would like to speak with you both," the rigid man informs us. I’d rather see my sister, first. Get some answers and my bearings before meeting the president of District Thirteen, but the hard look in Boggs’s eyes tells me to decline is not an option.

The two men escort me and Peeta to what they call Command: a large room with screens covering every wall. Some are labeled with numbers, some labeled with names, while most aren’t labeled at all. I recognize some of the images by the landmarks often seen during the Hunger Games. They’re watching the districts throughout Panem.

Heavensbee stops, so Peeta and I stop as well. Boggs, however, continues on to where the woman stands at the head of a large, rectangular table over to the side of the room. Her finger presses a button on the panel built into it and then leans her head in to hear what Boggs has to say to her. That’s when she notices us, the two ragged refugees plucked from District Twelve’s wilderness.

The woman’s steel gray eyes appraise every shabby detail from my torn, sleeveless shirt to Peeta’s lack of one. Her eyebrow lifts and I’m sure she’s wondering what exactly have the two men brought her.

Boggs stands straight and tall with his hands behind his back again, facing towards the woman but not completely looking at her directly. “President Coin, this is Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark.”

Peeta stands tall and focuses squarely on President Coin while it’s my turn to take her in.

Everything about this district is practical, sensible, and unadorned from what I can tell from the halls we walked through and the rooms we passed to get here. President Coin is the embodiment of the district she leads. Everything about her, like her district, has its place and does not stray, even her gray hair falls down her back in one unbroken sheet. Not a strand would dare fall out of place.

“These are the two you’ve been so excited to retrieve from District Twelve?” she asks Plutarch. She doesn’t try to hide how unimpressed she is with our presence. “They’re practically children.”

I bristle at the insult, which is ironic because it was only days ago that I resented being considered a woman of District Twelve with all the expectations that came with it.

Plutarch rushes in to save the moment. “I assure you, the raw footage was everything we hoped for, and then some. When Cressida and her crew are done with it, you’ll have exactly what we need for this rebellion.

“I sincerely hope so,” she says and for the first time since we’ve arrived at Command, President Coin addresses us directly. “Welcome to District Thirteen, soldiers Mellark and Everdeen.”

Plutarch checks his watch and sighs, “Ah, just time enough to get you both cleaned up before dinner,” right before telling Boggs to escort us to compartments 304 and 306.

I ignore the man that we’re supposed to follow and stand my ground with Plutarch. “Cressida mentioned my sister was here.”

“Oh, yes. She’s a charming girl,” he says but offers nothing more.

Prim’s here and seemingly safe, and I cling to the thought that Flower and the rest of my family are as well. These people don’t seem in a hurry for us to see them, though.

“Were there any others in Katniss’s family you were able to rescue?” Peeta asks as soon as we leave Command, artfully avoiding giving any information other than I have more family than Prim.

“As a matter of fact, there were.” Plutarch grins and looks ahead. “Now the both of you should get going or you’ll miss dinner.”

All I want to do is scream in the middle of the corridor and demand to see my family, that is, until Plutarch adds, “And I don’t think you’ll want to miss dinner since your family will be there.”

I freeze in my spot. Peeta grips my hand in his, his own excitement pouring through the strength in his hand. “See them? Her whole family?” he asks tentatively, and Plutarch’s grin becomes a full-fledged, beaming smile. “Oh, yes! Parents, sisters, the whole family. They declared no one dead or missing…except you. They’ll be in the mess hall for dinner, so I wouldn’t dawdle.”

My whole family. My parents. Sisters…

Peeta and I look at each other at the exact same moment, the information seeping into our bones. They’re alive. Flower’s alive. I want so much to rush into his arms, to share our joy together, but Boggs and Plutarch are watching us carefully.

“Now, I have edits to review with Cressida,” Plutarch says before he turns down an adjoining corridor. This time when Boggs continues walking, Peeta and I follow without question. We’re practically on his heels every step of the way up the elevator and to compartment 304.

He opens the door and looks at Peeta. “This is yours,” he says before taking a few more steps and opening the next door numbered 306. “And this is yours,” he tells me before standing tall in the corridor between both doors. “After you take your showers, I’m to escort you both to the mess hall.”

I don’t want to leave Peeta, and I can see the same hesitancy in his eyes. We’ve come this far together, why can’t we go the rest of the way together? Boggs silently watches me close my door and walk past him, entering the room that was assigned to Peeta. He doesn’t say a word when Peeta follows me inside and closes the door behind us.

“I don’t want to be apart,” I confess softly. My breath’s as shaky as my body.

Peeta crosses the space between us and I all but leap into his arms. “We’re so close,” he whispers in my ear. “So very close to seeing them, to seeing her.”

I nod my head into the crook of his neck because we are. We’re going to see our daughter.

* * *

The pellets of water feel good against my skin. I’ve never experienced a shower before. In my life it’s always been a tub of lukewarm water because we could never heat it fast enough to retain any real warmth, or the lake that’s always cooler than the air.

It’s refreshing to watch the day’s worth of travel dirt pool at the foot of the shower stall and spiral down the drain. There’s one thing that won’t wash away so easily. I killed two men. Now that I’m not preoccupied by worry or fear, their last moments of life repeat in my mind. They’re gone, wiped from the world because of me. Did they have families? Did they have people who loved them? Children? I press my forehead against the coated wall of the shower stall, but no matter how long I stay in the water, the blood doesn’t wash from my thoughts and neither do their faces.

Closing my eyes only makes the images of their faces stronger in my mind, so I leave the stall. The bathroom is barely larger than a closet, just large enough for a toilet and the shower stall.

I have no clean clothes and would rather not wear the grimy pieces I came here with, but it’s all I have. I tie the towel around me and lift my bundle of clothes into my arm before I leave the bathroom. The one room outside is like everything else in this district. Nothing but the essentials. Bare white walls decorated with nothing more than shelves and a computer panel. Two beds with gray blankets over white sheets. Peeta’s sitting on one of the beds with his face in his hands.

“Peeta?”

His hands drop and he looks at me. “I was just thinking about—”

He doesn’t have to say it. The look on his face mirrors how I feel.

We’ve killed to get here. Both of us. We’ve killed others so that we could live to be here. I sit next to him, my fingers slip over the collar of his District Thirteen issued shirt to the nape of his neck to pull him in close to me. His lips come to mine, and the taste of him makes the faces go away if only for the moments when I’m lost in his mouth, against his tongue.

I’m dazed when he pulls away from me, his fingers catch and hold the edges of my towel together. I didn’t notice that the fold had come undone as I pressed my chest as close to him as I could during the kiss.

He stares at the towel edges in his hand for a long, silent moment before looking back up to my eyes. “Boggs left these for you. They were in the other room,” he says while handing neatly folded District Thirteen issued clothes to me in his other hand.

I take them from him, making sure that my fingers brush his in the exchange, and leave to dress in the bathroom.

Boggs is still standing outside at the side of the door when Peeta and I leave fully dressed and ready for dinner, eager to see my family. The man is efficient in everything he does, including his steps, but in our excitement, it feels like a leisurely stroll through the underground district. Not what we want at all.

We step into a wide elevator that could easily carry fifty people, much larger than any of the other elevators we’ve taken in the underground complex and several more numbers on the control panel. This may well be the backbone of District Thirteen’s system, running from levels 0 to 41 where other elevators can access no more than ten levels.

Boggs presses the number 22 and my stomach flips when the elevator descends. A panel above the doors scroll through numbers: 3…4…5…

Somewhere around 9, we start to hear voices, little murmurs here and there. There’s a moment when I hear a child cry and my heart stutters. As we pass 20, a deep, low buzz begins and only grows louder. The sounds become more distinct. They are voices. Talking, laughing, unfiltered voices. These voices are such a contrast to the rest of this underground district that’s silent and lifeless. We’ve seen others on our way to Command, to our rooms, to the mess hall, and every single time people bustle to wherever they’re going without so much as a word.

The elevator gives a shutter when it stops on level 22 and the doors open to an enormous room that may be the entire level. I’ve never seen so many people gathered together without the fear of someone being chosen to die. Most sit on benches at numbered tables while others line up at the food counter where a woman scans their arm with a device and distributes portions of food to the queue. A woman from a swinging door comes out with a metal tray in her hands, swapping out one of the empty ones for this new one she’s brought. I recognize her immediately: Greasy Sae from my district, from the Hob. A master of creating something from nothing in a district with so little. It’s no wonder District Thirteen’s making use of her skill. This place doesn’t seem to waste anything.

“Katniss?” a familiar voice rises above the din and calls out across several tables. I squint, scanning the sea of people to find the face that I know belongs to the voice, to my mother.

“Katniss!” squeals a voice that can only be Prim. I continue to look for them, but Peeta finds them first and points to our left. There, at the table numbered 154, is my family. My whole family waving their arms to get our attention. My father sits on the bench next to my mother, waving his good arm. Prim is standing at the other side of my mother, and Flower’s in her arms.

Peeta slips his hand into mine and gives it a squeeze. They’re here. They’re really here and safe. We run together, past Boggs, past curious, unrecognizable faces of the people sitting between us and them.

Flower’s heard my name and is looking around but can’t find me until we’re right there in front of them. Flower sees us now and her face lights up. “Daddy!” Her arms reach out to us with her hands opening and closing. “Mama!”

I take Flower from Prim, not that my sister would put up a fight, and wrap my arms around Flower’s little body. I bury my face in her hair as Peeta’s arms wrap around the both of us.

Plutarch’s voice drifts in the background. “Daughter, huh?”

Cressida all but cries out “Are you getting this?”

We don’t care. All eyes are on us, and we don't care. The tears are falling, one after the other until it’s a steady stream down my face. Peeta’s arms tighten around us. My entire body’s shuddering with sobs, and I can’t figure out if it’s because I’m finally releasing all of the fear I had for my family or if it’s joy that they’re alive.

“Mama…” Flower whimpers and sniffles, “…cry.” I know I have to be strong for her, so I will myself to stop my tears and pull my head up. I look at her face and give her the biggest, brightest smile that conveys exactly what I’m feeling.

“Mama’s happy,” I tell her.

Peeta’s pulls his head up as well, and brushes his fingertip against the tip of her nose. “And Daddy’s happy, too.”

Flower gives us both a very wet smile. “Happy?” She takes her sopping finger and traces my nose from the bridge to the tip. It takes everything in me to resist the urge to pull her in again, but I don’t want to risk crying again. I’ve missed her. I wanted my second chance to be her mother, and I have it.

By the time the last tear’s fallen and all of the hugs have been given, the camera crew seems less interested in us and begins packing up their gear. Plutarch quietly discusses something with Boggs before he, Cressida and her crew disappear.

“You should get your food before the kitchen closes for this dinner shift,” Boggs warns.

I hold on to Flower in one arm with her settled on my hip at the counter while Peeta pulls two trays from the stack. Boggs shows the woman his wristband, allowing her to read the tiny screen. With the instructions she’s given, she fills plates and hands them to Peeta for both of us. “Yours and hers,” she tells him, identifying which plate goes to whom.

Boggs explains quickly, “How much sustenance each individual requires is calculated. No more, no less.”

We take our seats at the table with my family, Flower sitting on Peeta’s lap.

“We didn’t see any tracks from the district into the woods,” I tell my family, and Prim can barely contain the story.

“There wasn’t enough room for Daddy through the gap in the fence you always use, and Daddy couldn’t remember all of weak spots and openings so we were going back home to wait for you.”

My mother nods. “It’s a good thing Gale Hawthorne caught us on the way and suggested we follow him. With all of the people with him, he wanted to use the largest split in the fence. Said he never used it because there was always someone around to see on the east side of the district, but it was much wider, and with the Hawthornes’ help, we were able to get him through and into the woods.”

“We owe the Hawthornes a debt,” my father says, but unlike my mother, his voice is tinged with conflict. On the one hand, every member of their family has been spared certain death. On the other, it’s never ideal to owe someone. I think I understand that more than my mother or Prim ever can.

Even so, I don’t care if we owe the Hawthornes or that we may never be able to pay them back because they’ve given me a gift that’s priceless. It never occurred to me that the hole in the fence in the meadow wasn’t large enough for my father to struggle through. If they had returned to our house to wait for me, they would never have made it out of the district alive. I know that split in the fence the Hawthorne boy used. It was right next to a large cluster of houses in the Seam, and just as my mother explains, I never used it for the same reason. It was the section of the fence Peeta and I couldn’t reach after we escaped the district and followed the perimeter on our way to the meadow, thanks to the blanket of thick, smoky wind.

Flower takes Peeta’s slice of bread from his tray and stuffs what she can into her mouth. He won’t get any more than what we were given. Boggs made that clear, which means that Peeta’s portion is reduced. The adoring look in his eyes, the indulgent smile on his face, and the way his arm tightens around her as though she may disappear says he doesn’t care one bit. I lean into them, diving into her soft pillow of golden curls to give her a kiss on the back of her head.

“While people slept and we bandaged the wounded as best as we could, I took a walk at the edge of the lake. That’s when I saw the katniss flowers. Right before we left, I took Cheese and left it in the flowers, hoping you’d find it,” Prim explains before eating the last spoonful from her plate.

Cheese! I hadn't thought about the doll since the woods. Guilt builds in me, and Prim inadvertently makes it worse. “I’d hoped you bring Cheese back with you. Did you find her? Flower hasn’t slept through the night since.”

I nod, my skin prickling with my guilt. “Yeah, we did find Cheese, but forgot her when everything happened.”

“What happened?” Prim asks. She doesn’t understand how loaded the question is. Peeta and I look at each other and neither of us can figure out what to say. My father may have an idea. His brows furrow deep, and he tells my sister, “I’m sure Katniss and Peeta have been through a lot. They haven’t had time to settle in to tell us everything."

Prim turns to us, more concerned than curious. “Okay,” she says. “It’s better to have you both here than some doll.”

There’s a beep that rings throughout the cafeteria. It seems everything here is on a strict schedule. This dinner shift ends at nineteen hundred, and there’s a five minute warning that the time approaches. Peeta and I have long since finished our food since we were so hungry.

Boggs escorts me, Peeta, and my family into the elevator. My parents press the button marked “11” and Boggs doesn’t move to press “3”. It’s fine with me since I’d rather follow my family to see them to their room for the night. When the doors open on the eleventh floor we all empty onto it, including Boggs.

My parents and Prim enter compartment 1153, but Boggs continues to the next door and opens it. “Your accommodations have been reassigned,” he says, stopping Peeta from taking Flower into my family’s compartment. I’m not sure which one of us he’s speaking to, me or Peeta, but we both peek through the door he stands near. There aren’t two beds built into the foundation like the other compartments we were assigned, but one bed with four legs, and next to it is a deep box with a small mattress and sheets inside it. It’s a crib.

“We were not aware that you were the parents of a child. You’ve been reassigned to a family compartment,” he tells us, but there’s a strange gentleness in his voice that hadn’t been there before.

Peeta’s eyes are on me, waiting for my reaction.

This is it. The first step in making what I agreed to, the relationship I accepted in the woods, public. I walk into compartment 1155 without looking at Boggs, afraid that if I do or catch the eyes of my family, I may lose my resolve.

Peeta follows me quietly and the door closes behind us.

* * *

I wake with my pulse racing and my head swimming. The last image I remember is the look in Peeta's eyes before the light inside them flickers out. I was too late to stop the peacekeeper from plunging the knife into his chest and he's dead because of me. I'm about to cry out, but I hear a scratchy shuffle of feet against a floor. I force my eyes open and remember that I'm in District Thirteen...sharing a room with Peeta...and our daughter. It's still dark, but in my bleary vision, I can see two blond heads. Flower’s head rests on Peeta’s shoulder, she seems determined to stay awake but losing the battle as he gently bounces his body with each step. His words to her are soft whispers, but I can still hear them.

“When I first saw your mama, I knew she was the one for me. I loved her from the moment I saw her, and I knew there would never be anyone else the moment I heard her sing.”

There’s a long pause before he adds, “And I’ve loved you before you were born.”

He bends down out of the range of my periphery and her sheets rustle, her crib creaks with her added weight. I close my eyes. The bed dips beside me, and Peeta’s warm body curls against mine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm trying to establish the ins and outs of D13 from the little tidbits I could gather and what I have in my head. There will probably be mistakes from memory or notes. If so, please let me know. If I can work fixes in without having to change too much in the story, I'll do it ASAP.
> 
> I'm going with the movie visual of Cressida (half shaved instead of full shaved head) portrayed by Natalie Dormer. 
> 
> Compartments. I've created a set of guidelines for how they assign rooms. Singles and families under certain conditions are assigned compartments with two fixed beds. Older, yet underage siblings of the same gender can share a bed (which is my theory of why in the books K & family were assigned such a room). Children 18 and over are assigned to these compartments as singles. 
> 
> Family compartments don't have fixed beds which means they can add and remove furniture as needed.


	24. Pieces in a Game

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, I'm sorry it's taking so long. I can't tell you how many times I've edited and rewritten the draft for this chapter. I thought spending some time away would help, but that just started another round of edit/rewrite when I came back to it. 
> 
> I'm posting this first part because it's the only part I feel remotely confident with (relatively speaking) and it's been so long since the last chapter. This section is a little over 2000 words which is my usual minimum for a chapter, however, keep in mind that this isn't the full chapter. I'll append the rest when it's ready. 
> 
> Again, sorry it's taking so long, and thank you for your patience and kind words of encouragement and support. Always appreciated and welcome!

I don’t know how long I’ve been awake, but it’s long enough to have memorized Peeta’s deep, steady breaths against his strong heartbeat.  
  
It’s dark in our compartment except for the soft glow of the exit light above the door. It’s my constant reminder that we’re in District Thirteen. It does exist. My family’s safe. Flower’s safe. Peeta’s now safe. We survived.  
  
All of it is what I’d hoped for, but now that those fears and worries are clear, another set replaces them. Fears of whether I can keep my promise to be a real mother to Flower. I’ve always left the bulk of Flower’s care to my family, and the last few weeks have shown just how incompetent I am at the job. I’ve known her her entire life, and yet Peeta’s a better parent than I am in only weeks of knowing her. How can that bode well?  
  
And then there’s also the fear that I’ll lose any trace of courage when the judgmental eyes of what’s left of our district hone in on my brand new relationship with Peeta. In the cafeteria, I know they were there and saw us reunite with Flower and the rest of my family. I remember a blur of dark hair and olive skin and the general features that distinguish someone from the Seam but nothing else. I was too focused on the faces of my family to pay much attention to them.  
  
It’s different, now. The shock and joy of seeing my family alive and all of us safe and away from our charred district gives me time to absorb each an every clenched jaw, every hard glare and furrowed brow. Will they say I’ve betrayed them because I’ve chosen a boy from town instead of someone like Gale Hawthorne or Thom Russet from the Seam? I’ve heard the sentiment used to describe Seam girls known to be with boys from town. I’ve even heard people from town speak about my mother this way, and some with little hesitation even within earshot of me and Prim.  
  
And then there’s the biggest fear of all, one that sends a cold chill throughout my body. Before all of this, I knew how to take care of my family. Hunting and trading has kept five bellies full, and I’m sure I could have provided for Peeta as well. It wouldn’t have been easy adding another mouth, but I could have managed it if I set my mind to it. Here, in District Thirteen, I don’t know the rules of survival. They’re alive now, but how do I keep them alive?  
  
We’re so far underground, there’s no way to hunt and provide for my family. Will this district meet all of our needs, and if so, at what cost? There’s always a cost. How much will we owe them when everything’s tallied? How can we pay it all back?  
  
Peeta’s arms tighten around me. I'm in the exact position I woke up in: curled into him, my head on his chest, my arms around his waist, my leg over one of his. Still, his arms draw me in closer. Only now do I realize his breaths have sped up, his heart is racing. He’s awake.  
  
“Everything will be okay, Katniss,” he whispers in such a gentle tone that I almost forget the reasons why I’m so tense. I breathe in deeply, and my nose fills with the scent that I’ve always found comforting, even when I couldn’t admit it to myself.  
  
“Will it?” I ask, because I’d really like to believe him. In fact, I’m desperate to believe him.  
  
“Of course,” he breathes. “Your entire family survived, Katniss. No matter what happens from here on, you’ve had the chance to hold them again.”  
  
He’s right. And what’s worse, I remember that Peeta’s last living relative is the toddler in the crib across the room from our bed. In the cafeteria, it was only my family to greet us. His are still in the district, more than likely remains under the ash and rubble of what was the bakery.  
  
How would I have felt if I’d lost my parents and Prim? Lost. Alone.  
  
And then I realize that Peeta has lost one family but he has another to help him through this. My family’s welcomed Peeta with open arms, accepting him wholly as Flower’s father and a part of the family to my earlier chagrin. Now, though, he has them to steady him, to support him.

And then there’s the thought that scratches at the far edges of my mind. It’s the one that I’m reluctant to tackle. It’s the thought that’s been a constant question since that evening he chased me down the road with Flower in my arms. A question that I suppose has been answered since our time in the small house in the woods. What am I to Peeta?  
  
Words like friend, mother of his child, lover bounce around in my head, but no particular one of them seem to sum up what I am to him. It doesn’t take long for another word to appear, packaging all of the others neatly no matter how much my chest tightens uncomfortably and my fingers and toes tingle. It’s a word that I’ve considered before all of this, in passing, but now it’s harder to ignore. The one thing I was always expected to become eventually: wife.  
  
It hits me harder than if I were punched in the gut. I’m Peeta’s wife. All that’s missing is a toasting, the small ceremony from our district that would make it official. The last step in a path I’m starting to wonder was always inevitable, always there, hovering over us like a cloud whether dark and stormy or light and fluffy. It was always there, right above us waiting for me to notice it, to see it. My family must have seen it. I know Prim must have seen it with the looks she’d given me and her words here and there about Peeta. Even the people in Thirteen must have seen it for us to be assigned a family compartment. On some level, I was aware of it too. Back in the woods, in the small house, I had to decide where I wanted to go with this, and I knew that I’d chosen the path of commitment. In this case, marriage.  
  
Feeding and caring for my family has been my sole priority in life, but once in a while, the abstract idea of marriage would drift into my thoughts through the years. In the last couple of years, it was usually prompted by some Seam mother who loved the idea of a hunter for a dauther-in-law. There was a steady stream of not so subtle hints letting me know how available their sons were, how strong or caring or clever their son would be as a husband. They were becoming more aggressive in the months leading up to my eighteenth birthday, that is, until the news of Flower’s paternity spread through the district.  
  
Even then, I know they were waiting for the dust to settle. An unattached Seam hunter proven to be able to feed an entire family was a catch, even with a blond-haired, blue-eyed baby on her hip. They were waiting, maybe even hoping that Peeta would do as other boys from town had done, and that their son would be the one to swoop in and pick up the pieces.  
  
Now that I’m allowing myself to think about it, to look at the situation from its different angles, I realize that there would never have been someone to swoop in because I’d chosen Peeta long before. Even when I was sixteen and didn’t fully know what I was doing or the weight of my choices, on some level I knew it was always going to be him. To be his friend, mother of his child, his lover. Those descriptions don’t seem as impossible as they had in our district. As he holds me close to his side, it feels…right.  
  
And just like that, I’m desperate to find his lips in the dim light of the exit sign. He has lost one family, but he has another to help him through this. He has my parents, Prim, Flower…and me.  
  
He doesn’t hesitate to accept my attention, his tongue traces the curve of my lower lip and meets my tongue in a desperate mission to twine them together. His hand reaches for the nape of my neck, holding me firmly in place as we fuse together in tasting the other. The kind of fire he seems to stoke in me warms us both so much that sweat forms along my skin.  
  
Under the blanket, I stretch my leg across his until I straddle his hips. It’s been too long since I’ve felt him between my legs.  
  
His palms slip under my district issued nightshirt and make direct contact with my waist. His fingertips explore the curves and grooves of my spine up to the space between my shoulder blades, then follows the path back down.  
  
I sigh out my approval when he reaches further down to follow the contours of my rear before holding me firmly in place to push his hips into mine.  
  
Thanks to the thin sleepwear, there’s no missing how firm he is between my legs and it's a struggle to hold back the next gasp forced out of my lungs. I clench my thighs tightly around him and dive down for another taste of him.  
  
He tastes like home, like springtime in the meadow when there’s a flush of dandelions and the patches of daisies are just beginning to bloom. He tastes like warm fruit and nut bread on a cold, rainy day. He tastes like the courage I need to keep my family safe. The taste of him only makes me want more, building the hunger for something that only he can give me. My fingers are already grasping at the hem of my shirt, ready to lift it up and over my head, when the lights in the room flicker on at their dimmest setting.  
  
Our eyes meet. I’m more than willing to ignore the lights, and by the blue-rimmed, black pools of his eyes and his hands still firmly holding my hips to his, he’s of the same mind. And then there’s a rustle from across the room that can only be from Flower’s crib. As though that wasn’t enough to stop us, there’s also a knock at the door. We’re defeated. I have no choice but to slide off of Peeta, and for a long moment we lay on our backs staring up at the ceiling, desperately trying to manage our disappointment.  
  
The light in the room steadily brightens to full power. This must be their way of simulating sunrise, and I wonder how many of these people have ever seen an actual sunrise. There’s another knock at the door and Flower calls for “Daddy” in her crib.  
  
Peeta pecks my cheek, a mere whisper of a kiss, jumps out of bed, and sprints for the bathroom door. Somewhere along the way, he mutters, “I’ll be out in a few minutes." The heavy sounds of his footsteps along with the bathroom door closing behind him is enough to get Flower to stand in her crib and inspect the room. “Daddy?” she calls out. No matter how eager she looks around for him, there’s no mistaken her drowsy, drooping eyelids.  
  
“I’m afraid you’re stuck with me,” I tell her as I slide out of bed and shuffle my way to her. She’s confused to see me awake with Peeta nowhere to be found. I know there were at least two times in the night when Peeta had to get out of bed to comfort her, so it’s not surprising that she’s expecting to see his face again, not mine.  
  
I tamp down the hurt I feel at the disappointment in her eyes and lift her from the crib. Flower gives me a curious look before plunking her head down onto my shoulder as another sign that she’s not fully awake, yet.  
  
A heavy buzzing sounds twice. My first thought is to look for a bee or wasp, but then I remember where I am. It must be an alarm. After looking around for what in the room needs my attention and finding absolutely nothing, I remember that someone had been knocking on the door. I guess they’ve given up knocking and moved on to some automated sound.  
  
With Flower in one arm, I open the door with my free hand to see Boggs standing there with what I’ve come to recognize as his neutral expression. It cracks and softens at the sight of Flower half sleep in my arm. “It’s fifteen minutes before breakfast,” he tells me. Flower rubs her face into my shoulder and turns slightly to have a good look at the man.  
  
I blink a few times, questioning my eyes when he cracks a warm smile at Flower before turning and standing to the side of the door with his hands behind his back, staring at nothing in particular down the corridor. I close the door and find Peeta standing at the other side of the room. The look in his eyes startles me. I’ve long since cooled down from earlier but it seems he hasn’t. It feels as though something deep in my belly clenches tightly enough to effect my breathing. “F-fifteen minutes ‘till breakfast,” I stutter out.  
  
He nods, but that look is still there, and faster than I can comprehend, he’s in front of me. His hands are cupping my jaw, his fingertips pressing firmly at the back of my head, and I’m drawn in to his lips. This kiss doesn’t last nearly as long as I’d like which is why I whimper when he pulls away. “I’ll dress Flower,” he says while pulling away completely with Flower in his arms. I hadn’t even noticed him take her from me; I’m left in a daze.

* * *

On our way to the cafeteria, Peeta holds Flower in his arms as they play their own private game of “What’s that?” He points to simple things: a door handle, his shirt, her hair, his eyes, her finger. It goes on and on with him asking her, “What’s that?” Many times she knows the answer, but when she doesn’t, he’ll tell her and give her a tickle which causing her laughter to ring throughout the otherwise silent corridor. Their mirth is out of place here, whereas Boggs and I fit perfectly, melting into the quiet and unassuming nature of this district.  
  
The soldier and I walk side by side in silence until he finally breaks it by telling me, “I’m to escort the two of you to Command immediately after breakfast.”  
  
I nod. It’s all I can do. The idea of standing in front of the District Thirteen president for her to measure us against some standard Peeta and I aren’t aware of twists my insides, but this is her district and we’re just a guests.  
  
We’re only a minute late to the cafeteria, but it’s already packed with people who must have been here earlier than 0800. There are people everywhere, sitting at full tables, queued to be served their meal, and they’re all in loud, boisterous conversation. My family’s at the table numbered 354 where they were sitting last night. I can see Prim standing and waving for us over the heads of people sitting at the other tables.  
  
As we walk by, I’m keenly aware of the eyes on us. Spoons stop in mid air before they reach hungry mouths, words are caught in throats. It’s written all over the faces, olive skin framed in dark hair or pale skin framed in blond hair. It’s all the same look, the same accusation. In them is everything I expected, dreaded, feared. “You don’t belong together,” they’re telling me by the way their brows dip deep down, eyes dart back and forth from him to me to Flower over and over again as though somehow they can will us apart.  
  
Some eyes linger a little longer on Peeta with Flower in his arms, taking in and trying to make sense of the oddity that is town father and Seam daughter. No man from town struts in front of everyone as the proud father of a Seam girl. No man from town dotes on his Seam daughter every learned word as though they are the most precious sounds to his ears. It’s just not done. Ever.  
  
There’s one woman who makes a derisive sound with her teeth and her tongue, a sound of disgust that I’ve heard town women use when it came to people from the Seam, particularly Seam children. It’s the sound I remember Peeta’s mother used with me when I was desperate enough to rummage through their trash cans.  
  
The thought of Mrs. Mellark, starts my blood boiling through my veins and I stop suddenly, rooted in my place. At one woman to make such a sound. She from the Seam, about my mother’s age. And then I see the person sitting closest to her. A skinny man with the thin, dark creases of someone having already worked a few years in the mines. He’s probably only a couple of years older than me.  
  
Noticing that she has my full attention, the woman spits, “Shameless,” rolling her eyes and turning her back to me.  
  
A hand slips into mine and I blink at the woman’s back a few times and look down. Peeta’s hand is in mine, Flower in his other arm. I look up to find his eyes searching mine for something. Is that hope or trepidation? Perhaps both?  
  
There’s a war raging inside me. One where my fingers itch to release Peeta’s hand and hide our relationship from people like this woman with her back to me. They are from my district, from the Seam where I was born and grew up all of my life. They are the people that I’m connected to whether I know them or not, because we have a shared history. We are…were…seen as somehow lesser in the eyes of most people from town. For so many years, my lifetime many times over, we only had each other as a community. It’s people from the Seam like Mr. Hawthorne who helped bring my father home after the explosion and Sae who taught me how to negotiate for the best trade. It’s the neighbors who came to help watch Prim and my father while I was out either at school or hunting and my mother helped the people in the Seam.  
  
And then there’s the itch of irritation. It’s just beneath my skin and prickles every time I think of them judging me, judging Peeta, judging our daughter, deciding for us that we shouldn’t be together as a family. I’ve been making decisions for myself for seven years, now. Sure, some of them haven’t been well thought out, but my family’s been kept alive and well fed for those seven years which is more than I can say for most Seam families. They have no right to decide for me.  
  
It’s then and there that the war inside me ends and I stand my ground. Peeta’s caught off guard when I take a step, that step to bring us face to face, and kiss him. This doesn’t hold the same passion that our kisses in the woods held, all fire and need, but this has a kind of passion of its own. It’s warm and tingly, my lips capturing his, his capturing mine, tips of our tongues tentatively caressing the other. Slow and restrained as though we’re fearful that anything more will consume us.  
  
By the time we pull away, I realize I’m holding fistfuls of the front of this shirt with both hands. His face has a hint of pink to it but deepens into a red as his eyes dart around us and land back to me. “What was that for?” he whispers.  
  
“I needed to kiss you. Is that okay?” I ask, wondering if I’ve gone too far.  
  
“Oh, Katniss,” he sighs, shifting Flower, who has been tucked into his arm, on his hip, “you can kiss anytime you want.”  
  
The expressions of the faces around us hold mixed reactions. Some people, mostly from our district, look as though they’ve never been as scandalized as this very moment. Some people, mostly from this district, look as though they may cry. Flower looks at the two of us curiously for a long moment and then breaks out into a fit of giggles. We’re lost in our little world, just the three of us, when someone calls out Peeta’s name over all other voices in the cafeteria.  
  
Someone with a head of blond hair is standing from his seat next to my father.  
  
I take Flower from him the moment I recognize who it is, because I know what’s coming. And just like that, the two rush at each other and then they are one huge mass of blond hair and stocky bodies. There aren’t any words, but only the sound of their hands clapping a time or two at their backs in desperate relief. Otherwise, they hold on to each other as though they’re too afraid letting go would mean forever.  
  
I walk around them to the table, trying to give them as much time and privacy to themselves as they can get with what seems like the entire combined district everywhere around them.  
  
“We told him the two of you were back. He’s been watching Flower when Daddy has therapy,” Prim tells me as soon as I make it to her.  
  
It takes a while for them to separate. The smile on his brother’s face, one I don’t think I’ve ever seen on him before, doesn’t leave even as he returns to his spot next to my father. A Seam man sitting at his other side, someone about Gale Hawthorne’s age, tilts his head and says something in Peeta’s brother’s ear who shakes his head before taking a bite of his food. I know him. He’s one of the eligible bachelors of the Seam like the eldest Hawthorne. Thom Russet.  
  
Peeta, meanwhile, rounds the table to stand beside me across from his brother. “We should get our food,” he says with an identical smile as his brother’s. Prim’s eager to have Flower back in her arms and takes her from me before I can turn fully around. As soon as my hand is free, Peeta slips it into his hand and guides us down the aisle towards the food line.  
  
This time someone cries out my name ahead of us and when I look up, Madge stands down the aisles with her tray of food. Her eyes are wide and she all but throws her tray onto the nearest table before rushing to me. Personal space has always been respected between us, mostly, but I can’t help but reach my arms around her to return the embrace. There were people in town I didn’t think I’d ever see again, and Peeta’s brother and Madge were two of them. I’m so glad that two more lives were saved from the horror of our district. I’m glad for Peeta’s sake that so far we know one of his brothers survived. But selfishly, I’m overjoyed that my best friend made it out alive.  
  
“I’d heard last night that you two were found and brought here,” she says to me after pulling away from the hug. “I’m usually assigned the same meal shifts as your family,” she says while holding up her forearm to show me a tattoo of purple ink, “but yesterday, President Coin, Mr. Heavensbee and a few others wanted another session with me. I knew I’d see you at breakfast, though.”  
  
There are a couple of questions running around in my head, but the one that stands out the most is the one to tumble out of my mouth. “How did you make it out of the district?” The way she looks around, noticing each and ever person from District Twelve focusing on us, she doesn’t seem in a hurry to answer. All I get is a forced smile and “That’s not important. What’s important is that we’re alive. It’s not like the odds were in our favor.”  
  
I nod at that. I’m still curious, I still have questions, but I have to resign myself to the fact that some of them will be answered, and some may not.  
  
She turns to the table where she abandoned her tray and there are several items missing. The people near where she left it continue eating and conversing as though nothing’s happened. I guess that’s what happens when food’s strictly portioned and someone leaves their tray unattended.  
  
Madge doesn’t seem to care, though, as she continues to the table where my family sits. Peeta takes my hand again and gives it a slight tug to remind me that we have to get our own food. Not to mention we’re making an increasingly annoyed looking Boggs stand by the line wait for us.

* * *

We sit at my family’s assigned table with our food. Boggs had to give them the readout detailing our diet parameters, but told us it should be in the system by the end of the day.  
  
I hold Flower in one arm and my tray in the other while Peeta holds his and Flower’s trays. Mine and Peeta’s portions are modest, but Flower’s holds more food than she ever got in our house during the most abundant summer I can remember. I guess they want plump babies, here, and that’s fine with me.  
  
“I’ll feed her,” Peeta says, taking Flower from my lap, and she has no objection. In fact she’s already tilting her body in his direction with her arms outstretched, calling out, “Daddy!”  
  
Prim nudges me with her elbow to my ribs. “I’m glad you two have finally figured things out.”  
  
“For the most part,” I mutter with my head down to concentrate on the pale mush clumped on my plate rather than the smug grin on my sister’s face.  
  
“What room did they assign you before reassigning you to the room next to us?” Prim asks after swallowing her spoonful of mush.  
  
“304 and 306,” Peeta answers the question for me when I can’t, thanks to the sticky, flavorless spoonful of mush in my mouth. “They had us assigned to different rooms.”  
  
And suddenly, a burst of laughter comes from across the table. Peeta’s brother’s booming laugh causes heads to turn at other tables around use. I’m staring at him for a completely different reason. The middle Mellark boy has always been a bit on the sullen side. I can’t remember seeing him smile, much less laugh, especially like this.  
  
“I’m in 304,” his brother manages to squeeze out. “We were that close to sharing a room again!”  
  
His laughter is contagious, drawing everyone else in.  
  
“And we would’ve been roommates,” Madge says from Prim’s other side. “I’m assigned to room 306.”  
  
Another round of laughter fills our table, but it can only last so long when there are more sobering conversations to be had. There’s one question that weighs heavily on my mind: “So how many made it out?”  
  
The laughter had already waned by the time I ask my question, but any chuckles left stop abruptly. Eyes avert us, and there’s an eerie silence at our table. I brace myself for the answer, but nothing can prepare me for the number.  
  
“A little over eight hundred made it here,” Madge says softly and my jaw drops, my eyes bulge and I think my heart stopped for a fraction of a second.  
  
“A little over eight hundred? There were at least eight thousand people in our district before the bombs came.  
  
“Mama? Daddy?” Peeta looks to his brother, but his voice cracks, wavering with what he knows will be the answer.  
  
“They chose their fate,” his brother growls. “When Hawthorne tried to gather people from town on his way back to the Seam, Mama didn’t believe him and Daddy wouldn’t leave her. At least, that’s what Madge tells me.”  
  
Peeta doesn’t see the way Madge nods in agreement, confirming what he was told, because Peeta’s eyes are on his brother. His brows furrow deep;he’s working out some puzzle. “You don’t know what happened? Weren’t you there?”  
  
A deep red covers his brother’s face. At first, I think he’s angry, taking Peeta’s words as a kind of accusation, but then his eyes dart to the side, to his plate and trays across the table. “I wasn’t home when it happened,” he finally confesses, never looking up at Peeta directly. “I was on my way home from the Seam.”  
  
“The Seam?” Peeta repeats and there’s more to his question but it’s cut short by the large, open white wall of the cafeteria that’s now covered in the projection of green.  
  
It’s a video of woods very much like where Peeta and I were before we came here. And then I realize that it’s the very same woods when I see myself standing next to Peeta. There’s the sudden snap of a twig and the focus zooms in on the peacekeeper, Curbsen, standing in front of us wide eyed and frozen in his spot.  
   
The events play back like they do in my mind when I’m alone and I let myself dwell too long on everything, except it’s from a different angle. I’m on the outside looking in, but it makes it all the more horrifying with the detail that’s replayed for everyone to see.  
  
Watching Peeta place himself between me and Curbsen sends a cold chill throughout my body…again.  
  
In my mind, the details are hazy and it was fine with me that way because the details were painted with what I was feeling, what I am feeling. Now, I’m seeing it in every little detail. The way my arrow hits the peacekeeper’s chest, spearing through his heart so quickly that it takes a second for the rest of his body to follow. It’s the look in his eyes that I remember vividly, though, that look of when he knows as well as I do that he’ll never get up again. That look is there in front of me spread across an entire wall. My nightmare come to life.  
  
When Roads attacked me, details were missing, but I see them now. Peeta struggling with Curbsen until the peacekeeper’s body goes limp on top of him. Peeta frees himself from under the dead weight only to see me pinned to the tree by my throat. I didn’t hear Peeta desperately call my name or see how the light filled with his kindness and decency in his eyes flickered out the moment my eyes closed, but I hear and see them in heartbreaking detail, now.  
  
There’s a murderous cast over his features as he stalks up to us and with no hint of hesitation, plunges the knife into the back of the man, between the shoulders close to the base of the neck but to the left of his spine. We both go down and Peeta watches him as though waiting for him to get up, to attack again.  
  
Roads doesn’t move, frozen in his last moments, but my wheezing somehow switches that light in his eyes back on, the light that makes Peeta the person that he is. I release a huge breath, realizing that I was so caught in the moment of the video that I questioned whether or not that light would, or even could return. I haven’t been aware of this side of Peeta, never knowing that it had temporarily snuffed out what makes him…him. I was caught in the video, in the moments and it’s clear when the voice over begins that this was it’s intention from the beginning.  
  
As he cradles me in his arms, his body curled around mine as though he’s using it as another form of protection for me, the voice over says, “They fight for each other."  
  
The image melts into another. This time, our surroundings are hard to place but I know exactly where it’s taken because of what we’re doing. We’re clean ad huddled together with a very confused and frankly, distressed looking Flower between us. It’s in the cafeteria when we were first allowed to see our daughter and the rest of my family. The voice over continues, “They fight for their future.”  
  
The video zooms in on Flower as her lower lip protrudes and fat tears hang on her eyelashes. “They fight for the future of Panem.” The entire scene was too overwhelming for her. I knew that then, but seeing it, I understand by just how much, now. And the voice over finishes with, “There is nothing more important."


	25. Give and Take

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd hoped to have this out sooner, some time right after the one shot, but *sigh*
> 
> Some of you may have noticed the new, shiny restriction for this fic. I've been dealing with some people posting my stories elsewhere without my permission. Dealing with that has monopolized the time that would otherwise have been dedicated to writing. Issues still not resolved, so my output may be even less consistent.

The cafeteria’s silent. Although unnerving quiet is something I’ve come to associate with this district, that's not the case here where there are hundreds gathered in one place. There’s the tinkling sound of a spoon hitting the aluminum table that echoes everywhere; it’s hard to know where it came from.  
  
My father’s head hangs low and my mother is still staring at the wall, at a projection that’s no longer there. Prim’s eyes are wide and staring directly at me. I can’t bear to face her so I look to my other side where I meet Peeta’s eyes. We both feel it, how unfair it is to have our worst moments, the very moments we became killers, for all to see. We’re no better than two victors recounting their kills in the arena during the post-Hunger Games interview.  
  
Flower’s oblivious to everything around her, slapping her palms flat on the table to hear the sounds that she wouldn’t usually hear over people’s voices. She calls out, "Daddy!" for Peeta to hear her. In the moment, I'm glad that she can't possibly understand how they’ve used her, how they bring unwanted attention to her throughout the two merged districts as the daughter to murderers. Will she grow up here with whispers of what we’ve done all around her? The very thought of her looking at me the way Prim has been doing makes me feel closed in, trapped like boxed-in prey.  
  
I’m about to stand, but Peeta’s free hand covers mine and holds it to the table. The contact stops me, and gives me something to focus on other than my fear and anger. The way his fingers close around my hand sends me a quiet message that soothes me more than any words could. _We need to keep a level head_ , it says. _We need to think about this_ , his touch reminds me. But above all else, it reassures me that _We’re in this…together_.

"We'll see them after breakfast," he reminds me, reassures me that this isn't over. We just need to get through breakfast until then, so we continue to eat, hoping others will follow. They do, little by little, but our table is quiet compared to the discussions around us. The voices are far more subdued than before the video, and eyes dart our way often.  
  
“Peeta, I have to show you the set up they have in the kitchens. Maybe Katniss’ll want to come, too. I think there’s someone she’ll be happy to see.”  
  
There’s a look shared between the brothers that’s lost to me. Peeta nods and stands from the table with Flower in his arms, but his brother tells him, “Children aren’t allowed. Safety issues.”  
  
Both chuckle, and this time what’s shared between them isn’t lost to me. Peeta and his brothers were raised in a bakery. They were children surrounded by “safety issues” their entire lives.  
  
Prim offers to take Flower while we follow his brother to the opposite side of the cafeteria. Eyes follow us as we pass between tables, but I can’t tell if it’s because Peeta’s from town and I’m from the Seam. It could be that they’re seeing us anew: two killers walking freely among them.  
  
Peeta’s brother holds up his arm to a glass monitor at the side of double doors. Red beams pass over his purple tattoo, beeps, and then the little red light in the corner of the monitor turns green. His brother pushes the double doors open and we follow.  
  
The kitchen is massive, and the equipment is more advanced than anything I’ve seen at the bakery. The ovens have shiny metal doors and panels that display the temperature down to a half degree. There are other ovens that count down steadily, whirring and spinning the food inside them. I can barely take it all in, and by Peeta’s wide eyes. he’s trying desperately to do just that.  
  
“Katniss!”  
  
Greasy Sae steps out from behind a counter. It takes me a moment to realize after she rests a large cook spoon to the side that what I thought was a small tub is actually a cook-pot, and it’s billowing steam from the top which means there’s heat. The counter’s actually a stove, a flat surface that must give off enough heat to cook over top of it.  
  
“Girl! It’s good to see you,” she says to me, patting my cheek with her hand.  
  
It feels good that there’s someone here who hasn’t seen what Peeta and I have done. There’s still one relationship that hasn’t been tainted, at least for the moment, but I know it will be. Once she goes out there with the rest of them, they’ll tell her what I did. She’ll look at me like the rest of them; she’ll see me for the killer I am. At least for the moment I can pretend that it’s not true, that I’m the person I was before we escaped our district.  
  
But I’m wrong. Her old, gnarled fingers grab hold of my chin and pull my face to hers. “You did nothing wrong. You hear me?” I shake my head. My thoughts are stuck in it, rattling around but won't reach my tongue. She knows as well as I do that I _did_ do something wrong. Peeta and I killed them. They were men. Peoples sons, perhaps even brothers, fathers, uncles. Worst of all, they were peacekeepers, the embodiment of law in Panem, the highest authority in our district.

As though reading my mind, Sae draws my chin down with more force. "Girl, you did nothing wrong. You have a right to protect yourself and those you love."

I swallow hard and glance to where Peeta and his brother stand before nodding to Sae. She's right.

Years of conditioning to believe peacekeepers have the right to punish and kill us without impunity and with the full support of our country behind them, even though they were men with families who loved them, I know in my core that there was no other way. It was either them or us. If we hadn't done what we did, we would never have made it out of the woods. We would never have reunited with our families or have the chance to be true parents to Flower. We would be dead.

Would the peacekeepers have mourned us? Would we have haunted them in their quiet moments as they haunt ours?

There are hot prickles behind my eyes and I close them to stop the pain, to stop the tears. I'm relieved when Peeta's brother calls out, "Sae, the fridge.”  
  
The old woman releases me from her grip and Seam gray stare and turns to Peeta’s brother, giving him a quick nod. She smiles in my direction before returning to her place by the pot, and gives her last glance at me as we continue through the kitchen down a corridor, stopping at a thick metal door. The moment Peeta’s brother opens it, what looks like smoke rolls out the sides and rushes out across the threshold. It’s not smoke. It’s air as cold as winter locked in a room. He eyes the camera mounted to one of the outside walls and walks inside pronouncing loudly, “I can’t wait for you both to see how cold it can get. We didn't have anything like this in Twelve.”  
  
I feel as though he’s brought us here for more than the novelty of a cold room. We follow him in. I’m covered in gooseflesh before he even closes the door. The moment the door closes behind us with almost a suction-like sound his entire friendly demeanor is replaced by a seriousness that gives me more of a chill than the temperature .  
  
“We only have a few minutes. The last camera was out there,” he says while jutting his thumb in the direction of the door. “So we can talk here without worrying about eyes or ears.”  
  
“What do you want to talk about?” I ask him, but Peeta answers.  
  
“We have to talk about what we’re going to say, before we go to Command. We have to have a plan before we talk to them. A united front.”  
  
“I’m sorry I can’t leave,” Peeta’s brother apologizes, “but unauthorized people can’t be in here unattended.”  
  
“It’s okay. It’s enough you gave us this time to think without everyone looking at us.”  
  
It makes me feel a little bit better to hear Peeta say it out loud. I know all of the eyes on us was not my imagination, but it feels good for someone else to acknowledge it. Acknowledge how both districts were shown in great detail what we've done. And worst of all, to drag Flower into whatever it is they are doing.  
  
“They can’t get away with this!” I’m pacing now that I'm free to lose any shred of calm I might have had.  
  
“I know what you’re feeling, Katniss. I feel it too, but we have to be smart about this," Peeta pleads.   
  
“They used us, Peeta! They used our daughter!”  
  
“Don’t you think I know that?” he rages. "I didn't want this for her, for you, but—"

"No! I’m going to Command right now and tell them they have no right!" I storm towards the thick metal door but Peeta’s hand catches me by the wrist and stops me, eyes level with mine. He's breathing heavily and his hand releases me but his eyes and won't let go. "We have to think about this first. What’s to stop them from withdrawing their hospitality here? Where will our district go, then? What about your father? Prim?” He swallows hard. “Flower?”

“They wouldn’t,” I say but even as I say them, they feel meaningless. I know that they can. We've come to this district with nothing to trade but ourselves.  
  
There’s the shadow of hopelessness in Peeta’s eyes. His brother sees it, too, taking quick steps to him. “Listen, Peeta,” he takes him by the shoulders. “In the cafeteria, we hear things. This district needs us as much as we need them. They had some illness that wiped out a good chunk of their population, and most of those who survived can’t have children.”  
  
Peeta’s head snaps up at that, bringing brothers face to face. “We have bargaining power as a whole, but I’m sure you have more. There’s a reason why they spent their precious resources on that video. There’s a reason why they showed it to the entire district. They’re looking for something in you, Katniss, and Flower, and if you’re smart about it, you can use it.”  
  
His brother’s fingers dig into Peeta’s shoulders, imploring him to understand the roadmap he’s laying out.  
  
Peeta seems to because he nods tentatively and the two rest their heads forward until their brows touch and Peeta takes hold of his sibling’s shoulders as well. They stay like this for a long while, and I feel a renewed sense of hope and purpose emanating from them both.  
  
“You can do this,” he says to Peeta. “Katniss is a survivor, but so are you.”

* * *

By the time we return to the table, Madge isn't there, my father has Flower on his lap while everyone checks the strange, purple tattoos on their forearms. Even Prim has one that she studies carefully. I peek over to see plenty of block writing and can just make out a series of times listed.  
  
“What is that?” I ask her and Prim holds up her arm to me.  
  
“The day’s schedule. Everyone gets one early in the morning.”  
  
“Not everyone,” our father mumbles, his attention divided between the conversation and keeping Flower entertained. My mother’s already out of her seat and behind him with her hands on his shoulders and her lips at the top of his head. “I’m your schedule, my love.”  
  
His good hand is holding the back of Flower’s shirt, so he leans his head to the side, enough to caress his cheek against one of her hands. Their intimate moment together reminds me of a time before the explosion, a time when kisses and caresses were always shared between them.  
  
“Daddy’s physical therapy is in the medical ward with Mama,” Prim whispers to me, and then goes on to describe all of the wonderful things she’s learned in only a couple of days in the district’s medical training program. I try to listen, I really do, but my eyes wander to my parents again. My father isn’t slouched with the constant aches he never admits to enduring. And the shadows underneath my mother’s eyes are gone. She looks years younger.  
  
The care of our father doesn’t rest solely on her shoulders anymore. What Prim referred to as “physical therapy” seems to mean the district has provided help for his care, which leaves Mama more time to care for her own needs.  
  
I take a long look around and watch as Seam children who have known hunger for most of their lives finish full meals and don’t look on longingly for more. Everyone’s flourishing here, and it’s only been days. What could become of my family, my district with weeks, months, years of this? It reinforces what Peeta told me earlier. We do have to be careful how we approach this. We have to walk a fine line between what we want and what they want from us.

* * *

We say our goodbyes to everyone and follow Boggs to the Command Center, except, he doesn’t take us there right away. Instead, we stop at a door on the twenty-first floor where there’s the clamor of squeals and laughter. Boggs knocks and a woman with warm brown eyes and a gentle smile answers it.  
  
“Flower!” She reaches out her arms to take my daughter from me. I’m not sure where the reflex comes from, but I turn away, placing my body between them.  
  
The woman tilts her head to the side and shares a look with Boggs before taking a half step back. “I’m sorry. It was my fault for not introducing myself first. My name is Larina Boggs and I’m head of the childcare division.  
  
Boggs…I look to Boggs and he offers a single word explanation, “My sister.”  
  
Larina tentatively holds out her arms for Flower again, watching me carefully as though I may run away at any moment. A part of me does want to do just that, run with my daughter back to our compartment, but another part of me waits for what Flower will do, and I’m surprised when a bright smile appears on her face. It’s Peeta’s smile through and through. I’m suddenly aware of him behind me when his hand comes to my back, telling me without words that he thinks it will be alright because of Flower’s reaction to the woman.  
  
I turn my body again, but this time to bring Flower closer to the woman, and Flower’s arms shoot out, her hands open and close and she’s in the woman’s arms before I have time to process it all.  
  
“Flower and I are good friends. We’ve had so much fun for the last few days,” Larina tells us while giving my daughter a tight, hearty hug. I’m not prepared for the tightness in my chest and the swoop in my gut when Flower wraps her little arms around the woman and giggles.  
  
They disappear behind the door where we catch a glimpse of chaos. Small children, mostly from Twelve, are running and jumping and laughing.  
  
“I promise she’ll be fine. Your daughter’s in good hands,” Boggs says.  
  
It helps, but only a little. The only thing that can pry me from my spot, though, is Peeta’s hand covering mine, his fingers slipping between mine. He reminds me quietly that my family’s flourishing here and I can’t allow my fears to mess that up.  
  
I allow him to lead me behind Boggs who takes us straight to the Command Center where this time, the table with the built-in panel has several people sitting around it.

I recognize most of them. I’ve seen their faces on the screens every year as victors and mentors. I know the names of some but only know the faces of others. There’s Haymitch Abernathy, the sole surviving victor from my district who looks even worse for wear, and that's saying something.

And there’s Finnick Odair, the one people from the Capitol can never get enough of. Except, what would they think of him now? The darling of the Capitol usually sporting glossy, golden, well-placed locks, dressed in the Capitol’s finest, with what little clothes he did wear. At the table, he wears nothing but a hospital gown to cover himself, slumped in his chair with his hair dull and nest-like.  
  
Unsurprisingly, President Coin sits at the head of the table with her eyes on us as though we’re interrupting this meeting rather than having been sent to attend it. Boggs stops at the other end of the large room and tilts his head to tell us to go on.  
  
Peeta takes my hand in his again, and I know what he’s doing. We’re united. They have to understand that we’re united in facing whatever they expect of us. No one says a word as we approach the gathering, but it’s Heavensbee to break the silence the moment we reach the table. “There they are. Our stars!” He looks around, confused by something and cranes his neck around us to look in Boggs’s direction before returning his attention to us. “But where’s our biggest little star, Boggs?”  
  
“Childcare,” the soldier answers, and continues to look straight ahead. I don't miss the way his eyes dart to me and Peeta beforehand. Peeta and I don't volunteer anymore information. I'm not sure why Boggs made the decision for us to drop Flower off, disobeying orders, but I'm glad for it.

Heavensbee actually pouts. “Disappointing. I had hoped to have the three of you here.”  
  
“We thought it best to not have Flower here until we know what it is you want from us,” Peeta tells him, all of them, as his hand tightens around mine to emphasize how far he's going in the lie.  
  
“What do you mean?” Cressida tilts her head to the side as though she has no idea what we're talking about.  
  
“The video. The one you showed to the entire district,” I tell her, slipping my hand free from Peeta’s and taking a step closer to the table.  
  
The woman smirks, but Heavensbee barks out a laugh. “The district? Oh, Katniss, you need to start thinking bigger than that. That piece was shown throughout Panem, at least the parts we could break into the Capitol’s broadcasts.”  
  
“All through the night, I might add,” chimes in a victor, pushing his glasses up his nose. The victor sitting next to him starts to singsong, “Holes in the wall.” I don’t remember their names, but I remember seeing them mentor for District Three.  
  
I’m shaking all over. Throughout Panem? Peeta’s at my side and I reach for him, regretting letting his hand go. I need his steadiness more than every. I need something to keep me from losing my balance from that explosive news. He’s the only thing tethering my sanity at the moment.  
  
“Yours was one of the propoganda spots, propos if you will, meant to strengthen the resolve of the rebels. Give them something to look up to, to fight for,” Cressida explains. “And the feedback has been beyond our wildest hopes.” There’s a glint in her eye, an excitement that I can’t understand, that I’ll probably never understand being on the other side of the camera from her.  
  
“She’s right,” Heavensbee emphatically agrees. “The entire rebellion is smitten with your little family. We’re getting word from every district of more people joining our cause, inspired by the two of you fighting for your daughter’s future.” Even as he says the words, I can almost see the wheels turning in his mind’s eye, thinking of new propos starring me and Peeta and Flower.  
  
“Is that what you want? For the two of you and your daughter to be the faces of the rebellion?”  
  
The question comes from someone I hadn’t recognized before, but as I look at him just a little longer, I recognize his face. Smooth brown skin decorated with gold eyeliner. No one in Thirteen wears makeup, so he must be from the Capitol, but a simple line of eyeliner is an afterthought by the Capitol’s standards. I think they’d mention him in the last Hunger Games as our district’s new stylist, Cinna.  
  
While Heavensbee and Cressida balk at the question, I feel a strange comfort come over me that someone, at least one person in the room, cares how Peeta and I feel about all of this.  
  
The victors’ at the table eye us with a morbid kind of curiosity while Coin studies our reaction to the question, waiting for an answer.  
  
“We didn’t volunteer to star in your propos. And we would never have agreed to have Flower in them.” Even with the strength in Peeta’s hand and the warning from earlier, I can’t keep it in. I want them to know exactly how I feel.  
  
“Sometimes you’re thrown in front of a camera whether you volunteer or not,” grumbles one of the victors. Her eyes roll and her head sinks into her hand, balanced on her elbow. Johanna Mason looks bored by the conversation. I guess if you’ve been reaped and filmed surviving in the arena, my argument about how unfair it all is would seem a little boring.  
  
And yet, Johanna Mason doesn’t have a daughter to protect. I do.  
  
“Your faces have become a sensation, literally overnight. Of course you’ll want to see this through.” The look on Cressida’s face tells me that she expected us to be as excited about all of this as she is about her work, and can’t fathom why we’re not.  
  
“How many of these propos did you want us to do?”  
  
Cressida mistakes Peeta’s question for acceptance and launches into the plans for several pieces Heavensbee’s team as well as hers have brainstormed over. Plans for elaborate backgrounds and costumes designed by Cinna.  
  
I loose interest in what she’s saying, my eyes wandering over to the cold, hard stare of Coin at the head of the table. We’re studying each other, now. I can’t help but focus on the unbroken sheet of gray hair that hangs down her shoulders. Rigid, just like the woman. She expects her way. Not a hair out of place. I can see clearly that’s who she is.  
  
“If we’re to do this, we’re going to need some things in return,” Peeta says, his voice firm and leaving no room for negotiation.  
  
For the first time in the entire conversation, Coin’s lips part to say something, but it’s Heavensbee that beats her to it. “Let’s hear them.”  
  
I take Peeta’s lead and pipe up with my first demand. “I don’t want Flower in the propos.”  
  
The reaction is immediate. People at the table talk, then argue until Coin stands from her chair and says in an eerily calm tone, “That’s unacceptable.” All conversation stops, all eyes are darting between me and Coin. They need us and we need them and no one knows how to resolve this issue. The room remains quiet for too long, but I don’t avert my eyes from the woman. My daughter deserves her freedom.  
  
“I’m sure we can come to an agreement,” Heavensbee tries to placate the two of us, but we won’t budge; we won’t look at anything other than each other.  
  
“What if you decide which propos with her in them can be aired ? Would that be acceptable?” Cinna asks softly. I find his voice gentle, his tone friendly and disarming and can’t help but to turn away from Coin to face him.  
  
It’s a compromise. We live in this district because they allow us, and that hospitality could change at Coin’s whim. I look at Peeta and see the same thoughts in his eyes. It’s a good compromise, the best we’re going to get.  
  
I look to Coin again. There’s a shift in her features. It’s subtle, but readable. The suggestion could be something she will agree with. Her brows arch and her head tilts in the silent question of whether or not we will agree, if I will agree. I nod. She nods. Peeta says, “Agreed.”  
  
Heavensbee releases a huge sigh of relief.  
  
“And nothing in the studio, nothing to interfere with her daily life? Everything involving her must happen naturally. All those plans Cressida described won’t involve her,” Peeta states firmly, leaving no wiggle room. Cressida looks absolutely crestfallen, but Heavensbee doesn’t seem upset by the demand.  
  
The thought comes to me in a flash and tumbles out of my mouth. “I want to hunt. I want to go outside and hunt.” In my mind, it’s such a minor demand but the entire table erupts in arguments again. Safety and policy issues come up over and over. It takes a few moments but Heavensbee and Coin all but decide among themselves a compromise. I hunt with a guard present at all times for my safety and anything I kill is given to the kitchens for the district.  
  
At first, I’m ready to refuse the guard idea. How can I hunt when there’s some heavy-footed soldier trailing behind me? But then a name’s suggested. Soldier Hawthorne. They assign Gale Hawthorne as my guard and I accept it because he’s a hunter too. He’ll know how to move in the woods without scaring prey.  
  
“Where are my bow and arrows? Were they destroyed?”  
  
Cressida smirks. “They’re stored in the armory. Their rustic quality, I thought they would make great props in future propos.”  
  
Coin clears her throat and asks, “Is that the end of your demands?” Peeta and I both nod.  
  
“And what do we get in return for all of this?”  
  
Peeta and I glance at each other before leveling our eyes with hers. Our hands are still holding together because we are united in this, whatever good or bad comes of it. “You’ll have our complete and total cooperation in these propos," he says.  
  
Her brows lift upward slightly for a fraction of a second at what we offer before smoothing back into her ever neutral expression. “Agreed. But know, if we do not have the complete cooperation of the both of you and your daughter under the agreed terms, this agreement is forfeit. The repercussions to you and your families will be unpleasant.”  
  
Some heads whip in her direction at that, obviously not expecting such a threat, but we were. We know we have some leverage, but not much. We’re only temporarily famous, not long-time darlings of Panem like District Four’s Finnick and District One’s Cashmere.  
  
We have to take the best deal we can make under the circumstances. We have to keep our families safe. _We’re fighting for our future...There’s nothing more important._


	26. Author's Note Only!

Besides the issues I've mentioned before, RL has become hectic as well. I'll try my best to get something out earlier but officially, don't expect anything for at least the next couple of months.

Speaking of the issues mentioned before, it seems my headaches come from FF.net only. Needless to say, I won't be updating there anymore. For the time being, I'll remove the restriction from these stories here, but I have a feeling there's only so much time before AO3 inherits the same miscreants who have no respect for fanfic authors and I'll have to restrict it again...or worse.

BTW, forgot to mention in the notes in the last chapter. When I think of Katniss singing, I think of this [scene](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Uty1QGRAQes) (22 sec - 2 min) from OA. Full disclosure, I'm not a fan of the show. I like this version more than the singer's official version because the guitar, strangely enough, feels like it gets in the way more than enhances the song. Also, I think the plastic walls create unique acoustics, making it almost ethereal (which was the point of the scene).


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